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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747103">Can't Be Wrong</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose'>resilient_rose</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, For reasons, IMPORTANT REASONS, Kind of angsty, M/M, Musical References, New York City, Patrick needs a hug, Sebastien Raine is an Asshole, Too Many Musical References, also patrick cooks, also!, and david speaks french, and just when you think it isn't going to be angsty, but everyone ends up happy, david needs to trust himself, everyone is a lowkey mess, he was the worst in canon but he's even worse in this, it gets angstier, so if you're reading this to escape algebra class, stevie needs to embrace her talent, then sorry, too many math references as well</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:13:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,609</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/resilient_rose/pseuds/resilient_rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing everything, David Rose moves back to NYC. He reunites with an ex, but they quickly break up. Sick of relationships and desperate to prove his worth, David enrolls at NYU and moves in with Stevie Budd, a disillusioned actress. When David realizes he's failing his classes, he reluctantly seeks out a tutor.</p><p>Enter Patrick, who just moved here from Ontario.</p><p>Will David risk falling in love? Will Patrick reveal his troubled past? </p><p>Told in alternating David/Patrick POVs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd/Alexis Rose, in later chapters only, with some past David Rose/Sebastien Raine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m going to fail this class.”</p>
<p>David Rose is in his tiny kitchen. He’s been here for an hour, despairing over algebra, doubting his decision to enroll in business school, wondering if he can pay someone to do this for him, recalling he’s broke, spiraling over that fact, drinking wine, all to write down one wrong answer. He eyes his textbook, which he’s never cracked open. </p>
<p>His roommate glances up.</p>
<p>“Maybe,” she says, “you should read your textbook.” </p>
<p>David takes his head out of his hands to stare at her, defiant. She sips some wine and responds with a tiny, mocking smile, then returns her attention to <em> Othello. </em></p>
<p>“Why aren’t I getting <em>your </em>degree?” he asks.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” she says, balancing her glass on her knee. “Acting degrees pay so well.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, looking at his homework again. “Stevie.”</p>
<p>“David.”</p>
<p>“Do you have the inner strength...and the decency...to murder me?”</p>
<p>“Yes. But you have to wait until I finish this act.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” he whispers, discarding his glasses and resting his head on the table. </p>
<p>He stays quiet for a moment, listening to the clock and the rush of the city below; he breathes in deeply, meditating on the lemony scent of leftover pasta, and hums as he falls into a memory. </p>
<p>
  <em> It’s Saturday, late spring, midnight in Tribeca. He’s balancing a bag of Chinese takeout, a bottle of wine, and a portfolio Sebastien asked for -- he stopped by the studio even though it was out of his way because he’s a good boyfriend. A great boyfriend.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He takes his keys from his bag, jostling the food and wine, and unlocks the apartment; he pushes the door open with his foot, surprised to hear music, and smirks. Sebastien must have put a record on to set the mood.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He moves down the hall, arranging his expression, and formulates a cheeky, affectionate response. Then he hears a voice he doesn’t recognize. He sets down his bags, shifting silently into the drawing-room, and watches Sebastien laugh and kiss a man who isn’t him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Um. What’s going on here?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastien pulls away, still laughing, and looks at David like he’s a waiter. “Oh, David! Oh, the time must have gotten away from me, this is Rafael--” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Rafael waves, laughing. “Hi--” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David holds his hand up at Rafael, who looks about 18.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “What the fuck is this?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastian sighs, looking at Rafael in apology. “He gets very sensitive about these things.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Are you fucking kidding me?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Like I said,” Sebastien says to Rafael, breezy. He gets up and opens his arms wide. “What’s the problem here, David?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “The problem is we had a date and you’re…” He gestures, his hand shaky, at the witless NYU freshman who’s sitting where he should be sitting. “Is he even legal?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastien shrugs. “Think so. Listen, I met him on a shoot today, and we just...we connected, David. Nothing happened, almost nothing.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “You promised me you would not do this again. You promised me you would not do this!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I was pretty high when I promised you that, David.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David opens his mouth in stunned outrage. “That -- that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “So I’m getting a vibe that this is about to turn into a domestic,” says Rafael, getting up and slipping between them into the hall. “Ciao.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The front door clicks shut after a moment. David remains open-mouthed, then whispers, “Ciao? What the fuck? Are you out of your fucking mind?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastien moves to take David in his arms. “David --” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Don’t touch me!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastien chuckles. “David.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Don’t touch me!” Now he’s panicked. Now the walls are coming down, brick by brick. “Don’t, don’t touch me.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He’s backing up. Shutting down.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sebastien smiles. “Listen. It can’t always be you. I don’t want to box myself in, alright? And you’re a lot of work. You understand that. Sometimes I need a guy who can relax, okay?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’m…” David can barely breathe. “I’m going to go.” He nods. “Yeah. Um. Enjoy getting yourself off. There’s food in the hall. And wine. Knock yourself out.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “David, don’t be like this--” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He’s back outside before Sebastien can finish. </em>
</p>
<p>So he fails this class. So he flunks out. He didn’t know what he was thinking anyway. This gamble with a business degree is, as Sebastian put it, a pathetic flail at self-respect -- something David, <em> obviously</em>, is incapable of. </p>
<p>“David, you’re wallowing.”</p>
<p>He looks at Stevie as she sips some wine.</p>
<p>“You told me to point out when you wallow,” she adds. </p>
<p>“I regret asking you to do that.”</p>
<p>She puts aside her book and gets to her feet. He sits up slightly, elbows on the table, then rubs his face. She squeezes his shoulder as she passes and he breathes out, a bit ashamed. He doesn’t need to take Stevie along for this inevitable meltdown. She might be sardonic and off-putting, but so is he, and he doesn’t want to ruin her life. </p>
<p>
  <em> David goes into the first bar he encounters. He doesn’t care about the clientele as long as there’s vodka and a lot of it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He shouldn’t have come back to New York. He shouldn’t have given Sebastien another chance. He shouldn’t have trusted him, or himself. He shouldn’t have left his parents in court against Eli. He shouldn’t have left Alexis alone with Stavros in God-knows-where.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Holy fuck. How did he get here? Why did he think New York would change his life the way it once did? Why did he expect a quick fix? He’s not twenty. He crawled back here for what? For an ex? To forget he lost his inheritance? To complete some cosmic cycle of self-destruction? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He moves through the dark bar and finds the counter; he sits in the one remaining seat, beside a brunette woman in a plaid shirt, and orders a vodka -- with a twist of lime, so he doesn’t seem like an alcoholic. He makes it a double and slides his card across the counter. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Rough day?” asks the woman. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Her voice is soft and arch. Her features are delicate, but she’s world-weary. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Well,” says David, breaking his rule about not talking to random drunks, “I just walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me, so.” He accepts his drink and drains it. “Yes, you could say that.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh.” She nods. “I just got dumped.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, congratulations.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’m Stevie,” she says after a sip of beer. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “David,” he says. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “So by walked in on, did you actually see the whole…?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, wow, no, but it was obvious that was about to happen, also the guy he was cheating on me with was like, twenty years younger." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “So we should call the police.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Um, that’s very flattering, but I’m 38.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Wow. Still skeevy.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Very skeevy. He met him at a shoot.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “You thought you could date a photographer and not get cheated on?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, it’s so much worse than that,” says David, voice conspiratorial and dramatic. “I dated a photographer who I dated five years ago who also cheated on me then, and I thought I could not get cheated on now.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie nods, working through this. “I would judge you,” she says after taking a drink. “But I just planned a romantic vacation for me and my boyfriend, because we’ve been dating for a year, and he told me he thought we weren’t serious. This happened a day after he introduced me to his parents.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Mhm,” says David, nodding and finishing his drink, motioning for another. “Maybe you should date women. In my experience, they’re less shitty."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, so you have the option of dating women, yet you date men.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Yes, because sometimes I need to get railed.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Her eyes light up in horrified amusement. “Oh! Well, same, but you might be surprised how good women are at that.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Are you offering? Because if you are, this might be the fastest I’ve ever gotten laid, and I’ve been to Coachella.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “So, if I was offering,” she says, “you would be interested?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I don’t know yet,” David says honestly, frowning as he accepts his second drink. “Tonight I just want to get very drunk.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She raises her glass and clicks it on his. “Same.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David’s lips twitch, more of a smirk than a smile, but his eyes are warm. He drains his drink and orders two more shots.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Is one of those for me or are you an alcoholic?” asks Stevie. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, one is for you. Though medically speaking, yes. I’m absolutely an alcoholic.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She takes the shot. “Who isn’t?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Literally no one,” he says, adding, “so what do you do?” </em>
</p>
<p>He isn’t sure why he talked to a stranger for four hours in a grungy bar. He isn’t sure how he managed it, but that was the healthiest conversation he’d ever had in his life, despite a fifth of Stoli and an eventual, stumbling, slurring walk back to her apartment. Nothing happened between them that night, or in the future. But she did become his best friend.</p>
<p>He didn’t expect this. Of course, he didn’t expect to flee to New York after losing his inheritance, or to enroll at NYU -- frankly, he didn’t expect to get <em>accepted </em>to NYU but apparently, the Rose name still means something. </p>
<p>“Still wallowing,” says Stevie, returning with more wine. </p>
<p>“How did I get into this program?”</p>
<p>She gestures with the bottle. “How did <em>you </em>get in? I didn’t even graduate high school.”</p>
<p>“Did you blow someone on the admissions council?”</p>
<p>She sits down and uncorks the wine. “Did <em> you</em>?”</p>
<p>“No,” he says, very softly, rubbing his temples. “Should I have?”</p>
<p>“Why would you ask that if you got in?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’m--” He flaps his hand, at a loss. “Why do I need to know math?”</p>
<p>“You are getting a <em> business </em>degree,” she suggests. </p>
<p>“Why am I doing that?”</p>
<p>“To...restore your family name?”</p>
<p>“That’s not why.” He puts his glasses back on and presses his thumb to his lips as he stares at <em> College Algebra for Beginners</em>. “Okay.” He blinks. “What if I get high?”</p>
<p>Stevie refills her wine. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”</p>
<p>He looks at the worksheet for the hundredth time. <em> Y = 3x^2</em><em>+ 17</em>. “What does that two mean?”</p>
<p>She grabs the paper out of his hand, studies it, and says, “Maybe it's a <em> baby </em> two.”</p>
<p>David sighs. “Fuck me.”</p>
<p>“Maybe it’s one of those exponent things,” murmurs Stevie, turning the paper. She brightens. “David.”</p>
<p>“Tell me the answers are on the back.” </p>
<p>“No. David, look.” She shoves the paper back and insistently taps on an advertisement for the Math Lab. “If you’re not going to read the textbook, or go to lectures, this is your answer.”</p>
<p>“Math Lab. You want me to go to <em> Math Lab</em> so that some pimply teenager can tell me how stupid I am?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think you understand that this is your only option.” </p>
<p>“I have other options!”</p>
<p>“Oh, like failing this class and dropping out and spiraling and 'reconciling' with Sebastien?”</p>
<p>David grimaces softly at the realism of this. “Yes. Like that.”</p>
<p>“How bad could it be?” she adds, tapping the ad again. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to ponder that,” says David, folding his hands under his chin.  </p>
<p>“You are doing this,” she says. </p>
<p>He looks reluctantly at the ad. <em> Stuck? Stop by the Math Lab! 251 Mercer (Warren Weaver Hall, 105). </em> This text is overlaid on a watermark of a computer and a few bubble-font variables. It’s <em>cutesy.</em> Whoever designed this made math <em>cute.</em></p>
<p>“I hate this,” says David.</p>
<p>“If you flunk out and leave me to pay this rent by myself, I will actually murder you,” Stevie replies. “Speaking of that, how’s the job search going?”</p>
<p>“Well, someone mistook me for an escort when I was at a bar last week, so I may try that. It might be a refreshing surprise for my parents that the child who resorts to prostitution is me and not Alexis.”</p>
<p>Stevie nods. “Totally.”</p>
<p>David looks at the Math Lab ad once more, then pours some wine and flicks the papers aside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick Brewer is having a bad night and it’s only getting worse.</p><p>He came home from class to find a leak under the sink, and while fixing that, pulled a muscle in his neck; afterward, hoping for some relief, he made hot cocoa with a splash of whiskey. Of course, he spilled this, and while searching for carpet cleaner, noticed a forgotten note-to-self about scholarship applications. One’s due tomorrow, and when he found the note, it was almost ten. Now it’s nearly midnight and he’s sitting alone at his desk, staring at a blank page while a siren blares on the street below.</p><p>Elmdale was never this loud. Not even on New Years' Eve.</p><p>He rubs his face, trying to focus, and stares at the essay prompt. <em>Describe an important realization you’ve come to in life. How did it change you?</em> He might actually laugh if this wasn’t due tomorrow. Getting that prompt was like stumbling out of a bar to be hit in the face by a flying AA pamphlet. Too well-aimed. Spooky.</p><p>“Is it coming along?” calls a cheerful voice -- Ray, poking his head in.</p><p>Patrick thinks his roommate has radar. Any time he doesn’t want to talk, this guy does.</p><p>“Yeah, I just -- I don’t have much time.”</p><p>“Well, if you would like some soup, I just heated some up. Cream of celery!”</p><p>“Thanks, no, uh…”</p><p>He types some nonsense to seem like he’s working: jiuadgybdiay asdusg whhw.</p><p>“I see you’re busy!”</p><p>He waits for retreating footsteps, then leans his head back and rubs his neck; he gives a slight wince, then puts his hands back on the keyboard, staring at the page again.</p><p>An important realization? Oh, who knows, maybe the fact he didn’t love the girl he was engaged to for five years? Maybe the fact he’s never loved any girl the way he thought guys should?</p><p>He’s only been in New York for three months. He came here with a suitcase, his savings, and a godsend acceptance letter from NYU. At least an MBA was a good excuse to leave his fiancée, his family, his home. At least he thought so -- now, as texts from his parents pile up, he’s not so sure. Now he wonders if they somehow know, or suspect. If they’re disappointed or relieved. If anything will ever be the same.</p><p>
  <em>“I -- I got in, Mom, to Stern.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His mom was in the kitchen, cooking chicken casserole and listening to an old Lightfoot album. She turned, mouth open, eyes bright with delight. Then she tossed her oven mitts aside and hugged him, laughing.</em>
</p><p>He remembers smiling. He also remembers almost crying, and it wasn’t the good kind of crying.</p><p>The worst part about leaving Rachel wasn’t fucking her life up, although that was bad. No. It was disappointing his parents. His mother, in particular, who had gone through enough to deserve more than one single, searching kid, who couldn’t tell her he couldn’t give her grandchildren.</p><p>
  <em>“Patrick! Oh, congratulations honey!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know, I’m -- I can’t believe it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can,” she said firmly. “Oh, I can. You’ve always been so smart.” She gasps. “Oh, Rachel must be so excited.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She’s, um, she’s not coming with me, mom. I…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His mom’s eyes flickered in confusion and defeat. “Oh no, no, why?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I need to -- I have to rethink this,” he made himself say. “I’m not sure I…” He breathed out. “I don’t think I love her.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’ve been together for 5 years!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know,” he said. “That’s why I owe this to her. To think about this.” He looked down, gathering strength. “I don’t love her the way I should love someone I’m marrying. I can’t love her like that.”</em>
</p><p><em>Can’t</em> was the right word. <em>Can’t</em> expressed every time he couldn’t get it up, every time he laid beside Rachel wondering if he should see a doctor -- or a therapist. Every time he paused on a hike and looked to the sky, trusting but terrified. I’ll find the courage.</p><p>He never found it in Elmdale. He doesn’t know how the hell to find it now. But New York is a start. New York has to be a start.</p><p>He begins to type.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David doesn’t miss LA, but he misses the sun. It’s Thursday, the seventh consecutive day of wet snow, and the streets are gray and grimy with winter debris. He wants just a <em> kiss </em>of sun. A simple caress of weather that isn’t bone-chilling. </p><p>“Ugh,” he mutters, schlepping dirty snow off his black leather boots as he enters Warren Weaver Hall. </p><p>He’s never been here and the 60’s architecture, complete with brass and brick, is rather unsettling. He blusters past another student and continues down the hall, still cold, and pulls open the door to Room 105. He realizes, based on the expressions of the students within, that opening the door so aggressively isn’t considered good math lab etiquette. </p><p>He doesn’t care. He sits at the table farthest from the others, takes out his textbook, and waits for someone to approach him.</p><p>
  <em> Don’t be younger than me, don’t be younger than me-- </em>
</p><p>He loses himself in his worries, sipping his matcha latte, eyes drifting over a bookshelf with volumes titled <em> Advanced Forecasting </em>and <em> Beyond Collatz. </em>Who the fuck is Collatz? He doesn’t notice when someone sits across from him. </p><p>“Algebra trouble?”</p><p>David jumps, breathing in, and looks up to see a man. His heart leaps. Twirls, actually. Does that thing it does when he’s having a panic attack, or an orgasm. He was expecting a freshman or a dowdy retiree. He was not expecting a man his age, a man with a soothing voice and soulful eyes; a man with pretty pink lips and... <em> oh fuck</em>. </p><p>“I’m Patrick.”</p><p>“Um. Hi. I’m -- David.”</p><p>“Are you sure about that?” asks Patrick, sitting down.</p><p>“About my name? Yes. I just -- I was having a moment. I can’t do math.”</p><p>Patrick almost smiles. David’s not sure if this is because he’s coming off badly, which he is, or because Patrick is judging him, which he might be, or because Patrick is one of those people, like Stevie, who usually <em>half-smiles</em>, and now he’s reading into an almost-smile and staring at those fucking lips.</p><p>“Great,” says Patrick. “Then you found the right place.”</p><p>“Great,” David echoes, mind buzzing. </p><p>Patrick waits and David realizes he wanted him to start.</p><p>“Oh. Okay, so, I have this worksheet, and I don’t know what any of it means, and it’s due at two today, and my roommate made me come here.”</p><p>He slides the worksheet to Patrick as if it’s an intelligence brief. He holds still. Surely he’ll be laughed out of the room. Surely this brilliant, beautiful guy will see the title of his textbook -- <em> College Algebra for Beginners </em> -- and wonder why he’s wasting his time on this when he could be reading about Collatz or whoever the fuck.</p><p>But when Patrick speaks, his voice is sincere, measured, genuine. In fact, David’s not sure he’s ever heard a voice so genuine, or so kind. He suddenly feels like he’s falling in a dream; that stomach-swooping, irresistible kind of falling; that forever kind of falling.</p><p>“So, which parts are you confused about?”</p><p><em> “ </em>Oh, literally all of it. Like, what’s that two?”</p><p>“That...is an exponent.”</p><p>“Okay,” David whispers, fearful. “And what does it do?”</p><p>“So…” Patrick laughs, but it isn’t judgmental. “Did you attend any lectures, or…?”</p><p>Even his laugh is appealing. Damn it. </p><p>“No, nope,” David answers. </p><p>“That...might be why you’re confused.”</p><p>“Oh, it definitely is,” agrees David.</p><p>Patrick nods, amused, and says, “Well David--”</p><p>David loses the rest of the sentence. He went somewhat numb at his name in this man’s mouth. He’s not sure what’s happening. This guy isn’t even his type.</p><p>“I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>“Oh, I said that these are pretty easy once you get the hang of them. Do you have a calculator?”</p><p>“Do I look like someone who has a calculator?”</p><p>“No,” says Patrick instantly. “Borrow mine.”</p><p>David nods, accepting it as Patrick takes it from his backpack. </p><p>“So, the x can be anything. You can use any value you want. You just have to follow the equation, so here, if x is one...you square it -- that means you multiply it by itself -- then multiply by three, so that’s three--”</p><p>“How is that three?”</p><p>“One times one is one. One times anything always gives you the <em>anything</em>. So one times ten is ten, one times a billion is a billion.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“So that’s three, and three plus seventeen is 20.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“And you’re supposed to draw a graph.”</p><p>“Mhmm. A line.”</p><p>“Exactly. So you need to plot a few values. What I usually do is use -2, -1, 0, 1, and 2. Plug those in for X and then I’ll explain intercepts.”</p><p>David holds still, then gestures with the pen in his hand. “Oh. You mean -- I find these? Now? You want me to find these...values…now?”</p><p>“Yeah David, if you could.”</p><p>David presses his lips together. “Oh. Okay. Um.” He nods. “So 2 times 3 is--”</p><p>“Square it first. There’s a mnemonic. Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally. Parentheses, exponents, multiply, divide, add, subtract. So that’s the order of operations. The OOO.”</p><p>David finds himself nodding. The <em>ooooh</em>. “Okay. If you’re wondering if I graduated high school, I did, but I was drunk half the time and I never took math.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Thank you for telling me that.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re welcome. I feel like what you’re describing is <em> very </em> rudimentary and I wanted to give you an explanation--”</p><p>“Math doesn’t care how old you are, David.”</p><p>David stops mid-gesture. </p><p>“What program are you in?” adds Patrick.</p><p>“Business?” says David; the word feels unnatural in his mouth.</p><p>Patrick glances at him. “Are you sure about that?”</p><p>“No -- I mean, yes -- that is, <em> technically</em>, the program I am in.”</p><p>“Sounds like you know what you want.”</p><p>David breathes out. “Okay, can we just -- can we focus on this?”</p><p>“Yeah, but I have time,” says Patrick.</p><p>“Oh,” David says in surprise. “So you’re a career counselor now?”</p><p>“Only if you want me to be.”</p><p>“What I <em> want </em> you to be is my math tutor.”</p><p>Patrick nods, grabbing a pencil, and David’s breath catches. He doesn’t mean to launch into speech, but something compels him. Something beyond this room. Something about this man.</p><p>“I should not be in this program. But I am. And I need help. I almost didn’t come here, I almost walked to admissions to drop out, but I didn’t. So would you please help me?”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes soften and he nods after a moment. “Yes, yeah. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“You seem annoyed.”</p><p>“Oh, I am,” says David. “But not with you. Not yet.”</p><p>Patrick nods, smiling slightly. David can’t figure out that fucking smile. Is he amused? Pleased? Turned on? <em> God let it be the last one.  </em></p><p>“Okay,” says Patrick. “So try that equation but use 2 instead of 1.”</p><p>
  <em> Focus, David.  </em>
</p><p>“So. 29?”</p><p>Patrick’s brows pop slightly in surprise. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Okay. So. Then I keep doing this and…”</p><p>“Yeah, exactly, and write down the ordered pairs -- the X and Y -- and see that 17? That’s the intercept. So you know that…” He takes a piece of paper from a scrap bin nearby and sketches a graph. “...the line will cross here.” He makes a mark. “And you go from there.”</p><p>“How do I do that?”</p><p>“Find both values, and see where they connect. Like this.” He puts down a dot, then another, then draws a line. “Not too hard, right?”</p><p>“Um, no,” says David, then glances at Patrick -- he wants to say something stupid, provide some kind of disclaimer about who he is and where he’s from and why he’s rude; he wants, for once, to explain himself, because, for once, he’s found someone deserving of an explanation. But he doesn’t say anything but, “Thanks.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, David.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick works in the Math Lab until after dark, willing himself to pay attention. </p><p>He tries to tutor more students, but he’s lost in two dark eyes. He tries to explain log10, but he’s drugged on a stranger. He would blame his lack of sleep, but he doesn’t feel sleepy. All he wants to do is drift in the unexpected afterglow of meeting David. </p><p>“You good?” checks Twyla, his shift mate. </p><p>He looks up, startled. Based on her expression, he’s been staring at the wall for a while. He probably looks about as capable as a soft-boiled egg right now. </p><p>“Yeah, um…” It’s a slow night, so he asks a favor. “You mind if I work in the back?”</p><p>“No, not at all! You’re okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, just didn’t sleep last night.” </p><p>“Oh, totally get it,” she says, smiling. </p><p>She moves to the next student, introducing herself, and he slips into the back to alphabetize textbooks. His fingers trail over the volumes and he works by rote, lost in thought. </p><p>He’s not sure how he said a single coherent word to David. He’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Never <em>noticed </em>anyone. Never effortlessly recalled details -- dark hair, not quite black; straight nose; lips prone to smirking; sparkling, intelligent eyes; brows that wouldn’t work on anyone’s face but his. He was wearing a silver chain around his neck, several silver rings on his fingers, which are slim, delicate at the tips, probably <em> very </em> practiced--</p><p>Patrick clears his throat. His hand falls off an old edition of <em> Computational Physics</em>. He’s exhausted. He’s out of his mind. He must be. Why else would a man’s name be stuck in his head, floating like a bubble in a screensaver, bouncing off every synapse?</p><p>
  <em> David. David. David. </em>
</p><p>He moves to the next book, searching for its place on the shelf, but his eyes don’t track the letters. He’s suspended, apparently illiterate. This is what everyone meant. This helpless stupidity, this stupid helplessness, this unplaceable and irreplaceable urge. </p><p><em> This </em>is what he should have felt for Rachel.</p><p>“Still good?” </p><p>Twyla, like Ray, is a bit too attentive.</p><p>“Yeah, yes --”</p><p>“Okay, because you’ve been shelving that book for a while, so...”</p><p>He nods. “Yeah, thank you, Twyla.”</p><p>She smiles. “You can go home. You just seem to have a lot on your mind.”</p><p>He hesitates; he has a bad feeling about going home. Ray’s out playing poker tonight, and without his incessant interruptions, he’ll be alone with himself. Alone with these thoughts. These dangerous, exhilarating thoughts. </p><p>“Okay,” he says. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David leaves his worksheet in the drop-bin beside his math prof’s door, picks up the new one, and wanders between brick apartment buildings and red-leafed elms until he reaches Ronnie’s Café. </p><p>He meant to go home and complete his usual afternoon routine: an edible, a nap, some delivery from <em> King Wok</em>. He didn’t mean to bluster into this café, cold and confused, and order three croissants. </p><p><em> Sounds like you know what you want</em>.</p><p>Patrick was too sure of himself. He had a bit too much confidence for someone so earnest and it threw David off-balance. So did his silver, perfect voice, and his calloused fingertips. And his eyes. And his shoulders. That blue sweater didn’t have the right to hug those shoulders like that. Is that sweater even grateful? </p><p>David leans his elbows on the table and rubs his face. He’s usually able to contain these feelings. Catch them before they burst out of his chest like inconvenient butterflies. But there was nothing he could do this time. </p><p>
  <em> Are you sure about that? </em>
</p><p>God, he actually told Patrick he shouldn’t be in the program. He said something he’s never said to anyone but Stevie. He said this to a stranger, in Math Lab, because he couldn’t help himself. Because he knew, somehow, that Patrick’s questions came from a place of concern, not arrogance. </p><p>
  <em> “David’s thinking of starting a business,” said Sebastien, gesturing with a gin fizz.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They were at a party. Another aimless, exclusive party at another nameless rooftop bar. Sebastien was high. Sebastien was always high.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I know, I know,” he laughed, nodding at his friends who snickered. “You would think...after what happened...a Rose would know better.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> David was tired. He was only at the party for the free cocktails, and maybe so he could show off his new Takizawa dress pants. It was just after one. Sebastien had gathered a crowd like he was announcing the next Hunger Games, but all he was doing was making fun of his boyfriend, who at that point, might have picked a ritual fight-to-the-death over staying at the party one more goddamn minute. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “See, David thinks he knows what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t understand the...the true tragedy of business. The toll capitalism takes on the soul.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> David finished his drink. How did he ever suck this guy’s dick?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Let’s leave that to the leeches on Wall Street, yes?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Everyone nodded, chuckling in agreement. David rolled his eyes and excused himself for another vodka. He sat at the edge of the bar, waiting, and Sebastien slid onto the seat next to him after a moment.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I didn’t mean anything, David--” </em>
</p><p><em> “Okay, you know that </em> you <em> sell things, right?” </em></p><p>
  <em> “I sell experiences, David.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, Sebastien, you sell photos. Actual, physical photos. To galleries. Who put them up, and charge even more for them.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s different--” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s not different. You just like making your friends laugh at the idea of me starting a business. As if my dad’s business failed. It didn’t.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Didn’t it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh my God.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, David. Alright. I can see you’re upset. Another drink?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> David looked at him sideways in disbelief. “Are you trying to get me drunk so I stop arguing with you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, I’m getting you drunk so you don’t argue later,” said Sebastien, then winked.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh. Wow, okay, slip in a roofie while you’re at it--” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t be stupid, David, you love it when you’re drunk.” </em>
</p><p>David was proud of himself for throwing his drink in Sebastien’s eyes. He was <em>less </em>proud that he went back to his apartment and apology-fucked him later, like he was the one who should be sorry. </p><p> He stares at the last croissant on his plate, debating coffee.</p><p><em> I should not be in this program</em>.</p><p>If he goes to the lab again, Patrick will ask why he said that. And he’ll tell him the truth, because something about Patrick unlocks his usual restraint. Something about Patrick reminds him what he was like before he carried a lifetime of armor. And the truth is tricky. It’s more than <em>my ex told me I was too stupid to get this degree.  </em></p><p>It’s that he believed him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sebastien is a piece of work in this fic and he gets worse in later chapters. When I first watched the episode about him, I got STRONG asshole vibes. So I decided to make him just horrible because that's fun!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick gets home as snow starts to fall, hauling in a few bags of groceries and a textbook he picked up on sale for next semester. He tosses this onto his kitchen table, then starts putting the food away.</p><p>He’s subdued. More tired than he should be. For the first time in a long time, he wishes he wasn’t alone. </p><p>His fingers linger on packages of cheese, bread, tomatoes. He can hear David’s voice, critiquing what he chose in a playful, persuasive way. Is it normal to imagine a life with a stranger? Do people do that when they meet? Is it weird that he never has?</p><p>
  <em> Pepper-jack, really?  </em>
</p><p>David’s like a devil on his shoulder. A saucy, choosy devil with beautiful hands. </p><p>
  <em> Oh, generic peanut butter? </em>
</p><p>A bit of a classist devil, but he’ll allow it.</p><p><em> Just tell me you got good bread</em>.</p><p>Patrick gestures with the loaf of baguette as if David’s beside him, then leans to grip the counter, embarrassed for himself, for humanity itself actually. </p><p>When he met Rachel, he didn’t think about her. In fact, he almost forgot about her until she reminded him they had a date. <em> Right. Her. With the red hair. </em>But tonight, he’s stuck on useless details: the placement of a wrinkle, the sparkle in one eye, the tiny ink stain on an unsuspecting palm. Forgetting David is like forgetting a lit match.</p><p>He pours a beer and starts to dice some onions and garlic. He’s not sure what to make for dinner, but this is always a good start.</p><p>
  <em> Are you making enough for me? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, because you’re in my head. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Actually, I’m down the street. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, I made you up.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Rude. </em>
</p><p>Yeah, Ray’s needless comments about the World Series would be very welcome right now. Anything but an imagined conversation. Anything but pretending he has something he doesn’t have. </p><p>He stirs the onions and drinks his beer, returning to the lab in his mind, recalling David’s voice. He’s never heard a voice that conveys so much at once, one that can be anxious and assured in one breath. If David was a cake, he’d be one of those complicated, unguessable flavors. Lavender-bourbon. Chai-banana.</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, that’s a normal thought, Patrick.  </em>
</p><p>He drinks more beer. </p><p>
  <em> Can we just -- can we focus on this? </em>
</p><p>David sounded apprehensive when he said that. Like his decision to get a business degree had been challenged before. Patrick didn’t mean to sound cynical or scathing. God, he hopes he didn’t sound like that. He knows he shouldn’t have said anything, but David sounded so unsure, and he knows what it’s like to go through with something out of obligation and desperation. </p><p>
  <em> It’s a degree, not a life he has to fake until he dies. </em>
</p><p>He rubs his face, too tired, and reaches into the fridge for some zucchini. Then he tosses his jacket onto a nearby chair, warm enough, and leans his head back to stretch his neck. </p><p><em> Thanks</em>. </p><p>He’s imagining it. He must be. But David seemed to say that word instead of saying more -- a lot more, a confessional flood. That <em>thanks </em>seemed like the dam that was holding back everything David deemed too personal, too pathetic.</p><p>Patrick makes himself take a breath. He needs to get a grip. He’s reading into a single word and the onions are burning. </p><p>
  <em> Good job, David. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You burned them, not me. </em>
</p><p>The imaginary conversation has to stop. He’ll step in front of a bus if he has to.</p><p>
  <em> Really, a bus? That seems messy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What do you suggest, David? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A limo. An official one. With flags.  </em>
</p><p>Does it count as an ideation if it’s funny? Probably.</p><p>He adds some beer to the pan to unstick the onions, then takes a package of cherry tomatoes and dumps them in. He’s still not sure what he’s making. His mom used to cook like this all the time and she’d call him into the kitchen to <em> “write this down, write this down, ah no did I use one tablespoon or two?” </em> He has a binder full of half-recipes, scribbled almost-dishes. Most of these are splattered with whatever they were making. Some have silly drawings or smudged butter-thumbprints.</p><p>He breathes out, shaking the pan, and glances outside.  He should call her. He went from weekly calls to awkward text exchanges, all initiated by her. But he can’t bring himself to call. What would he say? That he misses them, but not enough to come back? That he hates his life and himself here? That he’s falling? </p><p>He’s not sure from what, to where, or why. But that’s the word. Falling. </p><p>He finishes his beer and tosses the slices of zucchini into the pan. Then he takes his phone from his back pocket.</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:23: Hey mom, I’m making that zucchini tomato thing you like. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:23: I love that!! </em>
</p><p>Instant reply from a woman who barely knows how to text. Now he really feels bad.</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:24: Yeah, I don’t have parmesan but it’ll do </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:24: Use mozzarella </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:24: Did I tell you some stores have the really good stuff here? The buffalo kind, from Italy </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:24: OMG. I would tell you to send some but… </em>
</p><p>Patrick smiles. </p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:24: Might not make it to Elmdale </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:24: Nope. What else are you making? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:25: Just this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:25: No garlic bread?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:25: I should huh? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:25: Of course. How’s the weather? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:25: Not as bad as Elmdale </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:25: We’ve been snowed in for days. We miss your shoveling!! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:25: Don’t let Dad throw his back out again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:25: Your father just told me you should mind your own business </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:25: He already hurt himself, didn’t he? </em>
</p><p>A picture loads. There’s his dad in a recliner, an ice pack on his knee. Yep. Patrick chuckles and shakes his head.</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:26: Is he okay? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 6:27: He says yes </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:27: Okay. I’m burning my dinner. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad: Okay honey </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad: REALLY good to hear from you &lt;3 </em>
</p><p>Oof.</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> Sorry-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> You too-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> I know I need to-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> I miss you guys-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <em> Patrick, 6:27: Yeah, goodnight </em>
</p><p>He sets his phone aside and shakes the pan again, then closes his eyes and breathes out, very slow. David’s voice is back.</p><p>
  <em> Are they...do they…? They know, right? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not yet. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But they seem great.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They are. But what if this changes everything? </em>
</p><p>He wishes he was having this imaginary conversation at 16, not 33. But either way, he wants one thing: a hug. An endless hug. The kind of hug that doesn’t care if dinner burns, if time itself runs out. And he only wants it from one person.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we've all had imaginary conversations with David Rose, right? no? just me?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David gets home at eleven after wandering along the Hudson, through Chelsea, past Madison Square Park, into Rose Hill for samosas, down 2nd to Bleeker and back up to 8th. He didn’t mean to walk this far in these shoes. He didn’t mean to walk at all. But here he is, three hours of hypothetical conversation later.</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> It’s not just because my boyfriend-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> I actually want this degree-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> No, because-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> But I-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em> And I only meant to-- </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>If one more incomplete confession crosses his mind, he’s going to scream. No one’s ever had him like this. No one’s ever hooked him. And really, his kryptonite is a guy from Math Lab? Maybe he needs sleep. Maybe he needs a drink. </p><p>
  <em> I know I shouldn’t have-- </em>
</p><p>Jesus H. </p><p>He throws open the door to his apartment. He doesn’t expect Stevie to be home -- she bartends on Thursdays -- but she’s on the couch, sipping some wine, studying a script. He stops and crinkles the bag of leftover samosas in his hand. </p><p>“Um. Hi?”</p><p>“Was starting to think you died,” she says.</p><p>He nods. “Mm. At what point would you call Missing Persons?”</p><p>“Is a week too long?”</p><p>“Yes,” he says. “Statistically, the first 24 hours are the most critical.”</p><p>“You got that from <em>Criminal Minds.</em>”</p><p>“Did I?”</p><p>“Yeah, which is impressive considering you spend every episode staring at Prentiss.”</p><p>“Um, it’s not my fault that she’s gorgeous -- why are you home?”</p><p>“Because I have my period and I feel like shit?”</p><p>“Oh. Good reason. I have samosas.”</p><p>“Bring them here. Now.”</p><p>He smirks, joining her on the couch after swiping a glass of wine, and she reaches into the bag to pluck the biggest samosa she can find.</p><p>“So,” she says after a bite, “what happened to you?”</p><p>“Oh, I wandered in the snow for three hours,” he says.</p><p>“Because?”</p><p>“Because I remembered that fight Sebastien and I had. At that party.”</p><p>“We should invite him over so I can kill him. PMS-rage is a real legal defense, right?”</p><p>He nods through a bite. “It definitely is.”</p><p>“What if he just...slipped?”</p><p>“Yes, what if he slipped on the top step?”</p><p>“Right. What could we do? Innocent accident.”</p><p>David nods again. “I can play the grieving boyfriend while you lie to the police.”</p><p>She extends her pinkie to link it with his. “Deal.”</p><p>He smiles and glances at her, relaxed for the first time in hours; he’s feeling dangerously sloppy, but he doesn’t care. What would he do without her? He’d be homeless, dead, or worse -- in L.A. </p><p>“So. I went to Math Lab.”</p><p>She stops mid-bite and raises her brows. “Oh my God. You did?”</p><p>“I did. And I finished my homework.”</p><p>She opens her mouth, eyes wide. “How was it?”</p><p>“Well. My tutor wasn’t younger than me.”</p><p>She nods at him to continue, gesturing with a samosa. </p><p>He hesitates. “He’s -- um, he’s--”</p><p>He glances down, throat suddenly tight. Oh no. Oh God. Where the fuck did this come from? Why is he crying into a samosa in front of Stevie?</p><p>“Oh,” she says seriously, moving closer. “Okay. Um. I feel like I’m missing something.”</p><p>“No, it’s just -- Sebastien.”</p><p>“Is it?” she asks.</p><p>“Yes, but, no, it’s….” He covers his face. “Sorry. So sorry. Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?"</p><p>“So much,” she says fondly.</p><p>He nods. She smiles, setting her wine aside, and shifts to hug him. He presses his fingers into his eyes, shaking his head, and laughs.</p><p>“I can’t believe I still think about him.”</p><p>“You don’t think about him,” she says. “You think about what he did to you.”</p><p>“Is that different?”</p><p>“I think so.” She leans her head on his shoulder, almost a nuzzle. “Why did talking about your math tutor make you cry?”</p><p>“Oh, because he’s perfect and I’ll fuck his life up.”</p><p>“Oh.” She frowns, amused. “So you’re telling me you met a hot guy in Math Lab and you’re not going to thank me?”</p><p>“Thank you, Stevie.”</p><p>“That’s better.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes and leans his head on hers. Then he closes his eyes, grateful for the contact, and takes her hand. </p><p>“So you’re really going through something,” she says.</p><p>“Why do you say that?”</p><p>“Because you’re getting handsy.”</p><p>“Um, I’m cold. And yes. Correct.” He tangles their fingers. “Why did I go back to him that many times?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Why did I have goodbye sex with Emir?”</p><p>“Ew. Why did you?”</p><p>“I thought he’d feel bad and would be <em>very</em> generous.”</p><p>“Was he?”</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>They laugh together. Then she smirks and sets her chin on his shoulder, curious, and her eyes flash before she speaks. </p><p>“So tell me more about your tutor.”</p><p>“I will not be doing that.” </p><p>She breathes in. “Well. Here’s something to get your mind off everything. I’m auditioning for Sally.”</p><p>He turns, heart up, and stares at her. “You are?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Her lips tremble slightly. “I won’t get it, but…”</p><p>“No. No, you’re going to get it.”</p><p>“The audition’s tomorrow.”</p><p>He opens his mouth in outrage. “And you didn’t tell me?”</p><p>She grimaces, picking up the script. “I just decided on this tonight?”</p><p>“Oh my God,” he says, getting up for more wine. “We’re running lines.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick rolls over in bed, blinking as his alarm rings. He tucks his face into his pillow, unwilling to face the daylight, and listens to the morning commute beneath his window. </p><p><em> Good morning</em>.</p><p>He thought sleep would get rid of David.</p><p>
  <em> You have to go away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone in your bed. </em>
</p><p>He decides to go back to sleep. Just five minutes. Maybe he’s still half-asleep and that explains David’s unshakeable presence.</p><p>
  <em> I’m going back to sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not if I can help it. </em>
</p><p>He flops onto his back, glances down at himself, and nods. Of course he’s hard on a weekday morning when he’s already late for work. Why wouldn’t he be?</p><p>The blender whirs in the kitchen and Ray shouts about a smoothie. He closes his eyes and breathes out in annoyance, hand falling by his side.</p><p>
  <em> Do you need help with that? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yes, imaginary David, please give me an imaginary blowjob, so I can go to work and have a very real crisis. </em>
</p><p>“Do you like mango?” calls Ray.</p><p>“No Ray! No, I don’t!”</p><p>“Noted!”</p><p>He rubs his face. He slept badly again, but can’t remember what kept him up. He has a hunch, but he’s not willing to unearth 2 a.m. David-thoughts. Not right now.</p><p>“What about coconut?”</p><p>He adds another hand to his face, blocking out the sun. </p><p>“Papaya?”</p><p>
  <em> Is he always like this? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Should we get our own place? </em>
</p><p>He’s afraid to turn over. He’s afraid he’ll see David beside him, olive skin glowing in the sun. He’s afraid of his smirk. That self-assured, I-know-what-you-want smirk. He’s also afraid he’ll see nothing. That he’ll remember he’s alone and pathetic for imagining he isn’t. </p><p>He breathes out, pulling his thumb over his lips. All he wants is a hand on his chest; a thumb brushing nipple-rib-hip to his--</p><p>
  <em> “So...don’t be angry, but I have to ask. I have to, okay? For me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He nodded at Rachel. They were alone in his parents' kitchen, drinking bad coffee, and she was shrinking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you…” She gestures as if she’s about to laugh, but she’s about to cry. “Patrick, I’m sorry, but are you gay? Is that why you…?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, of course not.” </em>
</p><p>Right. That’s why he’s touching himself to a guy. </p><p>
  <em> So, says David, turning to pull his finger between Patrick’s pecs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please go away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> David pouts. But I’m here.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, you aren’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Honey, I’m not here like you’re not gay. </em>
</p><p>“Ooh, almond milk!”</p><p>He closes his eyes again. Then he throws the covers off and goes into the bathroom to shower. “I’m -- I’m showering, hold the dishes!”</p><p>“Loud and clear!” shouts Ray.</p><p>He closes the door on David, who breezes through it like a ghost.</p><p>
  <em> Um, I’m still here! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Course you are.</em>
</p><p>Patrick scrubs himself with peppermint soap, drinks a big cup of coffee, dresses in the stiffest, cleanest shirt he can find. He listens to music on the way to work. For an hour, he doesn’t hear David, and for an hour, he misses him. </p><p>He gets to the lab just after ten and Twyla, his shift mate, smiles at him and offers another cup of coffee. He thanks her and takes a sip, then takes his place at the entry desk, sorting some mail.</p><p>
  <em> Is it always this cold in here? </em>
</p><p>David’s back, walking in a slow circle around his desk, fingers dragging along his shoulders. </p><p>
  <em> And does it always smell like this? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Like what, David? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sweaty academia? </em>
</p><p>He looks up from the mail, tapping his foot. David sits on the edge of his desk and smiles, jaunty, undeterred. </p><p><em> I’m trying to work</em>.</p><p>
  <em> I’m not distracting you. </em>
</p><p>Patrick looks down, sorting a few flyers into the recycling bin. David hops off the desk and walks behind him, then drapes his arms over his shoulders, snuggling close.</p><p>
  <em> Maybe you should take today off. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You just said you weren’t distracting me.  </em>
</p><p>David hums, then kisses him behind his ear. He sits up very straight, fighting a chill, and stares across the math lab. He has to get this under control before it controls him, but how the hell does he do that? </p><p>
  <em> If you have a song stuck in your head, the best thing to do is to listen to it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So if you’re the song in this analogy, what do I do? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> What? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Me. Do me. </em>
</p><p>Patrick wonders if the real David is this wayward. Probably. And he’d probably eat it up. He’d probably love any, every version of David, because he’s done for this guy.</p><p>
  <em> I have this effect on a lot of people. You’re not alone. Maybe you could join the David Rose Is Just Too Hot Support Group. Even I’m in that.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You’re in a support group for your own looks? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sometimes even I can’t handle this. </em>
</p><p>Patrick drinks his coffee and continues to sort mail. He tries to focus on the commotion in the hall, sneakers squeaking on melting snow, couples laughing, an errant skateboard, mints spilling, a shouted greeting. He tells himself this is a phase, but it’s an awakening, and he knows that. He tells himself it will be over soon, but it won’t be, and he knows that too. </p><p><em> Honey, I’m not here like you’re not gay</em>.</p><p>He’s never used the word. That word hid behind others: <em> different, broken. </em> Those words hurt, but they weren’t unfixable. If he was different, he could change. If he was broken, he could piece himself together. But if he’s gay, that’s that. </p><p>He breathes in, eyes drifting over the hall, wondering why he didn’t figure this out when he was younger. Wondering if he did and he buried it. Wondering what David would say. He forces his attention back to the mail, discarding ads for university events, studies asking for participants, housing offers. He lingers on an open call for <em> Cabaret, </em>but before he can decide whether or not to toss it, someone taps on his desk.</p><p>“Hi. I’m still confused.”</p><p>After imagining David all morning, seeing him for real is dizzying. </p><p>He’s wearing a dark grey sweater, striped with rips, and leather pants that show a little more than Patrick can handle. Okay, a lot more. Jesus. </p><p>“Okay,” he manages, glancing at the roster. “I think Twyla is free…”</p><p>“No, you. I want you.”</p><p>Patrick’s mouth goes dry. He really didn’t need that phrase in his repository. He knows he’ll play it back a thousand times tonight. </p><p>“Oh. I’m -- working the desk today.”</p><p>“Well, you look more than capable of multitasking.” </p><p>“I am.” Patrick clears a section of the desk off, moving the call for <em> Cabaret </em>into his backpack, and grabs a chair that’s leaning on the nearest filing cabinet. “What can I do for you, David?”</p><p>David sits down, watching him. He looks tired, but his eyes are bright, amused, discerning as ever. Patrick gestures when he doesn’t speak. </p><p>“Sorry,” he says. “I was admiring your shirt.”</p><p>“Oh.” Patrick looks down at himself. “Are you joking?” </p><p>“No, it’s nice with your eyes.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Thank you. That’s why I picked it.”</p><p>“Mm. No it isn’t.”</p><p>“No, it isn’t, it was on sale.”</p><p>David laughs as he pulls his book from his bag. Patrick chuckles, watching him, then smiles to himself. He thought he would be nervous if he saw David again, but he suddenly feels calm, composed. He feels like he’s home. </p><p>“So, apparently,” says David, “the motherfuckers who created equations didn’t stop there, and there’s such a thing as a <em> system </em> of equations.”</p><p>“Gonna need you to tone down the language. This is a public space.”</p><p>David glances at him, reaching into his bag for a pen. He perks one brow. “Oh, yes sir.”</p><p>Patrick presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. David smirks, cocky, and opens his book to a page he dogeared. </p><p>“See. <em> Systems </em> of equations.”</p><p>“Hope you like word problems.”</p><p>“Who likes word problems?”</p><p>“I think they’re fun.”</p><p>“Mm. Do you think root canals are fun?”</p><p>“Depends how much nitrous they give you.”</p><p>David catches his eye with another smirk, bites his bottom lip, then looks back at his book. “Okay. So. <em> This </em> lunatic, Harold, brought 296 oranges to sell at a school fundraiser.”</p><p>“Oranges are a hot commodity, David.”</p><p>“They’re so not. So, customers can buy small boxes of oranges and large boxes of oranges. Harold sold 11 small boxes of oranges and 11 large boxes of oranges for a total of $220. His friend Jerry sold 3 small boxes and 14 large boxes for $203.”</p><p>“Harold must be pretty persuasive.</p><p>“Or this is a front,” says David, adding, “So I need to figure out the cost of one small box of oranges and one large box of oranges.” He pauses. “What does he do? Stand outside his school with fruit like some pervert?”</p><p>“Maybe he made a deal with the guy in the next problem because that guy has….637 watermelons.”</p><p>“Is this the same person? Who needs this much fruit?”</p><p>“Harry Styles?”</p><p>“His name <em>is </em> Harold. Was this intentional?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m sure people who write word problems are really concerned with niche pop culture references.” </p><p>“Who do you think <em> does </em>write these? Like, are the writers grown in a lab and kept in a locked room until they write enough of these?”</p><p>“Probably.”</p><p>“Does the government kidnap especially nerdy people and make them write these?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s what happened to me. Barely escaped with my life.”</p><p>David glances at him. “Wow. How did you pull that off?”</p><p>“Started a fire as a diversion and scaled the fence.”</p><p>David raises his brows. “Hot.”</p><p>Patrick’s breath catches in his throat. The drafty hall is suddenly too warm.</p><p>“I trust you won’t tell anyone that,” he says.</p><p>“No, your secret is safe with me.” David smirks again. “So can you tell me how much Harold charged for this fucking fruit?”</p><p>“No, you have to figure it out.”</p><p>“What if I pay you?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“What if I give you something else?”</p><p>“Are you propositioning me to do your homework?”</p><p>“No. But I’m not above it.” </p><p>Patrick glances down, fighting a laugh. David scoots closer, taking a pencil from the cup by the computer, and leans over the book. Patrick watches him, holding still. He smells like sandalwood, maybe cedar; it’s a warm, intoxicating smell, something Patrick would surely lose himself in if they were kissing--</p><p>
  <em> Nope. Don’t go there. </em>
</p><p>“Are you paying attention?” asks David.</p><p>“No. So, you need to come up with--”</p><p>“What was distracting you?”</p><p>“Your...cologne?”</p><p>“Oh." David's pleased. "Do you like it?”</p><p>“It’s. Yeah, it’s woodsy.”</p><p>“Woodsy. That’s a new one.”</p><p>“Oh. How would you describe it?”</p><p>“Um, sophisticated and erotic.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “The woods aren’t those things?”</p><p>“No,” says David. “No, the woods are vulgar and dark, and full of sad, inbred moonshiners.”</p><p>“All woods? The woods I’m familiar with only have a few sad, inbred moonshiners.”</p><p>David’s lips twitch in reluctant amusement. “Mhm. Maybe you need another try.” He twitches his finger at him, urging him to come closer. “C’mere.”</p><p>“I’m not going to smell you, David.”</p><p>David looks away. “Fine. I’ll just have to write to Tom Ford and inform him you think I smell <em> woodsy</em>.”</p><p>“I don’t think Tom Ford would care for my opinion, and I didn’t say it was a bad smell.”</p><p>“Woodsy.”</p><p>“Do you usually get hung up on adjectives?”</p><p>“Yes, it’s debilitating.” He taps the book. “So what do I do?”</p><p>Patrick watches him fondly. “I’m assuming you didn’t go to the lecture?”</p><p>“Correct. I like you better than my professor.”</p><p>“Ah. How do you know if you like your professor or not if you never go to lectures?”</p><p>David considers this, grimaces slightly, and confides, “Okay, this may be more a matter of my professor not liking <em> me </em> because I haven’t been to class, ever.” </p><p>Patrick nods. “Right.” He moves his chair closer to David’s, takes a pen, and writes out a couple of equations. “So, you need two equations to solve these. They’ve given you just enough to get the answer. So here, 11S + 11L = $220. 3S + 14L = $203. So how do you think you could combine those?”</p><p>“What is the S and the L?”</p><p>“Variables.”</p><p>“You said X is a variable.”</p><p>“Well David, any letter can be a variable. If you’d prefer, I can draw a tiny penguin to represent--”</p><p>“Okay, I’m feeling attacked right now,” says David softly. “I came here for help, practically on my knees.”</p><p>
  <em> Don’t say it, don’t say it-- </em>
</p><p>“I might have been more willing to help if you actually did that.”</p><p>David pops his brows, mouth slightly open in amusement and surprise. Patrick hopes he isn’t imagining the satisfaction in David’s eyes. </p><p>“Okay,” he whispers. “So now you’re being hostile <em> and </em>inappropriate?”</p><p>“That’s what you get when you come to the Math Lab.”</p><p>“Maybe you should advertise it that way.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Come for the math, stay for the innuendo.”</p><p>David puts his pen on his lips; he seems torn between exasperation and affection, as if a guy has never made him laugh like this. “Mhm. I think there’s been more innuendo than math. We’ve done one problem.”</p><p>“Not even one.”</p><p>“And whose fault is that?”</p><p>“Yours?” suggests Patrick. </p><p>“Oh, is it? Because so far, you’ve gotten distracted by my cologne, made fun of me, and joked about getting a blowjob.”</p><p>“Well, you get what you pay for David.”</p><p>David almost laughs. “I’m not paying you!”</p><p>Patrick looks at him as if to say <em>exactly</em>. David smirks and pulls his worksheet closer, eyeing Patrick, reluctant to break their gaze. </p><p>“So walk me through this,” he says softly.</p><p>Patrick nods, smiling, more serious. “Okay. You have to put one variable in terms of the other so you have the same terms in one equation. So...take the one that starts with 11S. Move the other variable to the other side.”</p><p>“I’m allowed to just...move it?”</p><p>“Yeah, you can manipulate an equation however you want as long as you do the same thing to both sides. So subtract 11L from both sides.”</p><p>“So...11S=220-11L? What does that do?”</p><p>“Now divide everything by 11.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“To get S alone.”</p><p>David looks at him sidelong, doubtful. Then he reaches for the calculator across the desk and Patrick takes his wrist to stop him. He breathes in a little too hard; his Adam’s apple jumps and Patrick stares. </p><p>“If you don’t let me use a calculator,” David says, breathy, “I will find a tutor who will.”</p><p>“David, this one’s simple. What’s 11 times 10?”</p><p>“110?”</p><p>“So…?”</p><p>“20 times 11 is…?”</p><p>“220?”</p><p>“So…?”</p><p>“So it’s 20?”</p><p>Patrick lets go of his wrist. “There you go.”</p><p>David writes this down, then looks at him again, flushed. “Um. Do you play guitar?”</p><p>So, not only was he paying attention to Patrick’s touch -- he was paying so much attention he picked up on his guitar calluses. Now Patrick’s flushed too.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Mhm.” He jots down the rest of the equation. “Are you any good?”</p><p>“I hope so. I’ve played since I was 10.”</p><p>David glances up again. “My God. Where did you get that kind of dedication?”</p><p>“I love it.  I stay pretty dedicated to things I love.”</p><p>“Mm. I think my most committed relationship is the one I have with <em> Roberta’s Pizza</em>. Though I do cheat on her occasionally for <em> Lucali </em>.”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head. “Pizza infidelity is such an epidemic.”</p><p>“I know,” sighs David. “Okay, now what?”</p><p>“Now you have S by itself. So plug that back into the other equation. The whole thing, in parenthesis. Yeah, like that, after the 3...and multiply it out.”</p><p>“Can I have the calculator this time?” </p><p>“No, what’s 3 times 20?”</p><p>“It’s how much I’ll pay you to let me use a calculator.”</p><p>“Do the math, David.”</p><p>Patrick’s not sure where his confidence comes from when he’s with David; he expected to stumble over every word, but it’s easy to be assertive -- maybe because David likes it. He knows David likes it because his breath picks up every time he uses an even <em>slightly </em>bossy tone.</p><p>“60? Okay, 60 minus 11L?”</p><p>“Plus. Flip the sign.”</p><p>“Plus 11L, equals 203.”</p><p>“Right, now take the 60 from the 203. 143. And 143 divided by 11 is 13.”</p><p>David gestures, taking this in, and nods. “Okay. So if L is 13…”</p><p>Patrick waits, actually proud. </p><p>“I put that back in the...first one? And that’s...220 minus 143?”</p><p>“Yeah. 77.”</p><p>“How the fuck do you do that?”</p><p>“I had no friends as a child.”</p><p>David catches a laugh. “Okay. So <em> now </em>...77 divided by 11…” He pauses, then adds in a tiny voice, “7?”</p><p>“Yeah, good job,” Patrick says warmly. “So a large box is $13, a small one is $7.”</p><p>“I think Harold overpriced those.”</p><p>“Hey, it’s a fundraiser, you’ve got to mark up your goods.”</p><p>“Mm. I’m picturing some kid buying a billion oranges from Shop ‘n Save, painting them a more appealing shade of orange, relabeling them, and reselling them like a common criminal.” He glances at his worksheet, then at Patrick. “Thanks.”</p><p>Patrick smiles. “Of course. Want to do another one?”</p><p>“Oh, we’re going to do all of them.”</p><p>Patrick nods and glances at his watch. “Well, at this rate, we’ll be done at about midnight.”</p><p>“Yes.” David takes out his phone. “I’m going to order us lunch. What do you want?”</p><p>“Are you…” Patrick trails off, frowning slightly. “Really?”</p><p>David meets his eyes with another infuriating smirk. “Mhm. So what do you like?”</p><p>***</p><p>An hour later, they’re finishing up two bahn-mis, digging into the corner of the takeout bag for stray sweet potato fries. Patrick was skeptical -- he’d never heard of bahn-mis -- but David promised he wouldn’t be disappointed. He isn’t, especially now as David rambles about the origin of the dish, his voice brilliant and warm.</p><p>“--so, they added rice flour to the bread because they had more of that than wheat flour and it actually made the bread better, fuck what the French say--”</p><p>“What do they say?”</p><p>David raises his brows. “Mm. Comment osez vous couper la pâte d'un tel classique avec de la farine de riz ? Ça va pas?”</p><p>Patrick’s jaw drops. Actually falls, cartoon-style. This gorgeous, intelligent, funny man can’t <em>also </em>speak French. </p><p>“What the fuck?” he breathes.</p><p>“I lived in Quebec for five years,” says David.</p><p><em> I love you. </em>“I love Quebec.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, I used to go there a lot as a kid but I never picked up any French.”</p><p>“It took me forever. My girlfriend made me learn it because she wouldn’t help translate anything.”</p><p>“Oh.” Patrick frowns. “Okay, huh.”</p><p>“I date men too,” David says. “If you were wondering.” He stabs a stray slice of radish with his fork. “You looked like you were wondering. I’ll date anyone, actually.” He pauses, amused, and crunches on the radish. “Okay, that makes me sound like I’m not selective. I am, very. Unless I’m drunk.” Another pause. “Actually, I am still selective, just differently selective. Sober me is interested in lively conversation. Drunk me is...not interested in that.”</p><p>Patrick works through this, quiet. How does anyone so unapologetically own their identity? It’s beyond him. Flat fucking beyond him. </p><p>“Drunk me has made some very bad choices,” David adds.</p><p>“Me too,” says Patrick. “One time I ordered chicks on Amazon. Like, live chicks. Because my girlfriend thought they were cute.”</p><p>“Okay, that is very misguided but <em>very </em>sweet. I’ve never done anything that nice for literally anyone.”</p><p>“Well, you bought me lunch,” says Patrick.</p><p>“Um, you’ve endured two hours of me not understanding what a number is, so--”</p><p>Patrick laughs. “No, I enjoyed it.”</p><p>“We got so much done,” jokes David, glancing at his worksheet -- #1-3 are complete. #4-10 are not.</p><p>“Maybe you need a tutor who doesn’t get so distracted,” says Patrick.</p><p>“Oh no, you’re mine now. I hope you don’t have other students.”</p><p>Patrick swallows. “I’m all yours.</p><p>Twyla pokes her head around the counter. “Patrick? Someone needs help with trig and you know that is <em> not </em> my thing.”</p><p>Patrick looks at her, then at David, who raises one saucy brow.</p><p>“So you’re breaking your exclusive contract with me already?”</p><p>“Not a contract, David.”</p><p>“Um…” David signs a sloppy name on his paper and holds it up. “Then what is this?”</p><p>“A bad forgery of my signature?” says Patrick, getting up. </p><p>David nods, sending a last, soft smile at him. “Okay. I will...see you tomorrow, same time?”</p><p>Patrick hesitates by the door to the lab, reluctant to say goodbye. He barely slept, woke up distressed. David burned through his doubt and regret for two beautiful, effortless hours. He feels like he stepped into someone else’s life and he doesn’t want to step out of it. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says quietly. “See you then.”</p><p>He follows Twyla into the lab and she turns over her shoulder to murmur, “He’s cute.”</p><p>
  <em> Say it. Just say it. It’s just Twyla. She’s handing you this opportunity. </em>
</p><p>Patrick takes a breath. “I know, right?”</p><p>He almost shivers from the adrenaline surge these three simple words produce.</p><p>Twyla smiles. “You should totally go for that.”</p><p>“I’m, uh -- going to.”</p><p>She grins. “Good.” She points out the student in need of trig help. “Fair warning: it’s a proof and it involves cotangents.”</p><p>Patrick spends the rest of the day tutoring, as distracted as he was yesterday. He replays his conversation with David. His laugh, his fucking French. He stares into space, recalling the feeling of his skin under his fingertips, and meditates on that poised, perfect smirk. Today, these thoughts are intoxicating, not intimidating. He doesn’t know if David is single. He doesn’t know how he’ll tell him the truth about dating Rachel, hiding behind a life he never wanted. </p><p>But for now, he’s drunk on this new connection. This easy, teasing connection. It’s hot. He’s never described anything in his life that way. </p><p>He packs up around six, looking forward to sleeping more than two hours, and yawns as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. He leaves the lab, pausing by the help desk to check if he left anything behind. </p><p>He’s about to flick the light off when he notices a tiny note. It’s written on the back of an article; the handwriting is neat, small, stylish. </p><p>
  <em> Call me tonight. 212-152-8255 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> David Rose </em>
</p><p>Patrick stares at the note like it’s impossible. He blinks. His number. David left his number. He didn’t misread David’s gaze. Didn’t mistake his tone. He’s standing alone in a dark hall, in New York City, with a guy’s number. Not just any guy. A witty, stylish, expressive, graceful...Patrick needs a thesaurus. Fuck.</p><p>***</p><p>Two hours later, he’s lying in bed, flipping the note over in his fingers the way he plays with a guitar pick. His phone is beside him, untouched. </p><p>He doesn’t know how to start. Should he text first? He’s not going to type-erase-type-erase for ten minutes while David stares at the dots, waiting. As if David would be <em>waiting</em>. The note said to call, not text. David seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t interchange these formats. </p><p>
  <em> Call me. </em>
</p><p>Patrick inhales. As a kid in Slate Falls, he’d throw himself off two-story cliffs into the river. He trusted he wouldn’t hit a tree on the way down; he’d plunge meters into the icy water and come up laughing with his cousins. He was young, stupid, in love with everything life gave him.</p><p>He wants that feeling back. He’s going to get it back. </p><p>He dials the number.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David is in the kitchen, washing a coffee cup from this morning, when his phone rings. He glances at the display, sees it’s from a number he doesn’t recognize, and his mouth goes dry. </p><p>He was halfway down the street, cold to his bones, when he stopped, spun, returned to the math lab, and left his number. It was sudden, stupid, and it’s the most sincere thing he’s done since arriving in New York. Maybe ever.</p><p>“Okay,” he breathes, steadying himself. He dries his hand, picks up the phone, and says in a supremely professional tone, “David Rose, speaking?”</p><p>“David, hi, it’s--”</p><p>“I know who it is,” he says, voice transforming, soft and playful. “I wasn’t sure you would call.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“We’ve already talked for hours today,” says David, migrating toward a wine bottle and a glass. </p><p>“I’m not tired of you yet.”</p><p>“Good,” David says, pouring some red.</p><p>“What are you drinking?” Patrick asks.</p><p>“I’m not sure,” David admits, turning the bottle. “I think it’s a Malbec but I don’t have my contacts in.”</p><p>“Is it smart to drink when you can’t see?”</p><p>“You would be surprised what I’ve done when I can’t see.” </p><p>That came out slightly more suggestive than he intended. He hears an intake of breath on the line and wonders where Patrick is. In his kitchen too, searching for a drink? In a nook that overlooks the city? Is he across the avenue, staring outside like David, lost in a foreign feeling?</p><p>“What are <em>you</em> drinking?” he asks.</p><p>“Beer. Molson Dry.”</p><p>“That is very specific,” he says fondly, pressing his lips together as he corks the wine.</p><p>“Yeah, it reminds me of home. I finally found it in this bodega in Washington Heights.”</p><p>David stops, glass halfway to his mouth. “Wait. Are you from Canada?”</p><p>Patrick hesitates. “Yeah?”</p><p>“What? Where?” asks David.</p><p>“Ontario--”</p><p>“I was born in Toronto!”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes, despite appearances. My parents had this <em>brief</em> fling with the idea of raising me and my sister somewhere sane, but then my mom booked a guest role so we moved to L.A.”</p><p>“She’s an actress?”</p><p>“Mhm. You may have seen her on Sunrise Bay.”</p><p>A pause. </p><p>“Your mom is Moira Rose? You’re -- you’re that Rose?”</p><p>David falters. His identity tends to complicate most men’s intentions. “Um, unfortunately, yes.”</p><p>“Well,” says Patrick, unfazed, “Sunrise Bay is my mom’s favorite show, so you’ll be telling me some secrets.”</p><p>David smiles. “I will tell you all my secrets.”</p><p>“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.” </p><p>“Mm,” says David. “Where are you from?”</p><p>“Doubt you would know it. Elmdale.”</p><p>“No,” agrees David, sitting in a chair by the window. </p><p>“It’s small. About six hours north of Toronto.”</p><p>“So this winter is nothing for you. Do you have any tips?”</p><p>“Stay inside.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>that’s</em> helpful. I’m trying to.”</p><p>“Yak-Traks.”</p><p>David frowns, eyes flashing in interest and amusement. “What-Traks?”</p><p>“Yak-Traks, they’re these traction devices you velcro to the bottom of your shoes so you don’t fall on the ice.”</p><p>David’s eyes widen a bit and he sips his wine. “Wow. <em>Those</em> sound sexy.”</p><p>“Oh, they are, if you think not falling on the ice is sexy.”</p><p>It’s not right that Patrick is sweet, soothing, and funny. It’s not right they can talk like this after mere minutes together. An unwitting eavesdropper might think he’s talking to his husband who’s away on a trip and that’s surreal. Sublime. Scary, actually. </p><p>“I think falling is sexier,” he says, recovering after his mind tripped on the word <em>husband</em>. Jesus. “Because the person you’re with has to pull you up.” </p><p>“Yes, then drive you to the ER.”</p><p>David’s lips twitch. “Yes.” He drinks more wine, shifting his feet to the windowsill. “I’ve never been in the ER.”</p><p>“That’s impressive, David.”</p><p>“I thought so. You?”</p><p>“Yeah, a few times. I broke my arm falling out of a tree. Then my ankle, falling off a train.”</p><p>“How did you fall off a train?”</p><p>“There’s not a lot to do in Northern Ontario.”</p><p>“So you…” David gestures with his wine, working through this. “Became a trainhopper?”</p><p>“It wasn’t a moving train. My cousins and I would climb these abandoned trains on the edge of town and picnic on top of them.”</p><p>“Mhm. Were your cousins hobos?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes they were, David."</p><p>David glances down, smiling to himself. Patrick has a touch of Stevie’s dry humor. Maybe more than a touch. He adores it. </p><p>“And falling out of the tree…?”</p><p>“Also my cousins’ fault.” </p><p>“They sound like a bad influence,” says David. </p><p>“Oh, they were. Every time I ever got in trouble, it was their fault. Every single time.”</p><p>“I feel that way about my sister,” David tells him. “Once when we were teenagers -- I was eighteen, she was fifteen -- she crashed her car into a food truck on Santa Monica pier, with me in the car, and everyone thought it was me.”</p><p>“Well, in their defense, that does sound like something you would do--”</p><p>David interrupts with a breathy, sudden laugh. “You barely know me!”</p><p>“Why weren’t you driving?”</p><p>“Technically, I was the adult passenger in the car that the law required for her to drive.”</p><p>“Technically?”</p><p>“I'm not sure eighteen-year-old me deserves to be considered an adult. I had to do community service for that.”</p><p>“You took the fall?” asks Patrick, intentionally dramatic.</p><p>“No. The court just <em>truly</em> thought it was me.”</p><p>“And your sister didn’t correct them?”</p><p>“No. She sat in court and winked at me.”</p><p>“Wow. What was your community service?”</p><p>“Helping the elderly carve pumpkins for Halloween. And before you ask if I’m joking, sadly, I’m not.”</p><p>“So...you crashed a car...and all you had to do was carve pumpkins?”</p><p>“I didn’t crash a car! I mean, I have, but not that day.”</p><p>“You have?”</p><p>“Haven’t you?”</p><p>“No, David, because I keep my eyes on the road. And I can see.”</p><p>“Um, making fun of someone’s impaired eyesight is harassment, and the time I crashed a car, I could see perfectly. I was just high.”</p><p>“Oh, that makes it alright. On what?”</p><p>“I don’t remember. This is why I left L.A.”</p><p>“This incident or your drug problem?”</p><p>“It wasn’t a drug problem. It was a drug <em>proximity</em> problem.”</p><p>“Ah. Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”</p><p>David smirks. “Me too. The same can’t be said for my neighbor’s arbor. Or her cat.”</p><p>“I’m allergic to cats so I think you did the world a favor. Pumpkins, really?”</p><p>“Yes, it kind of ruined pumpkins for me, although I still love pumpkin ravioli. Which is to die for at Piccolo Angolo, we should go some time.”</p><p><em>We</em>. Oops. </p><p>“I made that once,” Patrick replies. “Pumpkin ravioli. But I think I did it wrong because the filling kept coming out.”</p><p>David squints. “You made ravioli?”</p><p>“Tried to. I added too much flour.”</p><p>David pauses, already turned on. “Do you cook?”</p><p>“Yeah,” says Patrick. There’s something soft in his tone that tells David he loves to cook; that he’s good at it. That he associates it with happier times. “My mom taught me.”</p><p>“My mom tried to teach me. Christmas before last, we attempted enchiladas. It almost ended in murder-suicide.”</p><p>“Who was who in that scenario?”</p><p>“It could have gone either way.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles and David smiles to himself.</p><p>“What’s your favorite thing to make?” he asks.</p><p>Patrick hums. “That’s hard.”</p><p>
  <em>Yes, so am I, keep talking. </em>
</p><p>“I think...pancakes?” </p><p>
  <em>Is it too late to schedule a summer wedding?</em>
</p><p>“Yeah, blueberry pancakes, but tamales are a close second.”</p><p>“Mhm. Could you make my favorite food?”</p><p>“What’s that, David?”</p><p>“Okay, if I’m honest, it’s pizza. But I also really love latkes. But you have to deep fry them or it doesn’t count. With applesauce and sour cream.”</p><p>“Applesauce, really?”</p><p>“Yes. What do you usually eat them with?”</p><p>“Eggs?”</p><p>“Um, sacrilege.”</p><p>Patrick laughs.</p><p>“That’s actually how my mom eats them,” David admits. “But she’s Irish.”</p><p>“Do you have something against the Irish, David?”</p><p>“No, just the food.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s…” Patrick trails off, chuckling again. “That’s fair.” Then something clangs in the background and some springs squeak like he jumped up from an old bed. “Sorry, my roommate is back and our sink is broken, hang on…” Footsteps, a door opening. “Ray? Yeah, it’s still broken. Sorry, yeah, I’m fixing it again. Yeah. Yes. Yeah, I’m -- I’m on the phone. Oh, that’s great. Yeah, that’s great, Ray. On the phone.”</p><p>David frowns in amusement. If he was on a dial-up, he’d be twirling the cord. </p><p>“David?”</p><p>“So he seems chatty.”</p><p>“He was the only person I could find who would sublease to someone with no rental history.”</p><p>“Mm. Is he a serial killer? Maybe he lures his victims by subleasing to them.”</p><p>“He does have a secret room I’m not allowed to go in. I <em>have</em> heard screams.”</p><p>David nods. “So he’s either into BDSM or he kills his tenants.”</p><p>“I don’t think those are mutually exclusive and I didn’t need either of those images, so thanks for that, David.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Actually, finding an apartment was so hard, if I hadn’t found this place, I would have willingly roomed with a murderer,” Patrick continues. </p><p>“Mhm, I developed a questionnaire for selecting roommates and the question ‘have you committed a felony?’ is way after the question ‘can you afford monthly rent and utilities?’”</p><p>“Right,” Patrick says. “That’s first. Then it’s ‘do you let pasta sauce explode in the microwave?’”</p><p>David laughs. “Yes.”</p><p>They talk for another hour. David leans deeper in his chair, eyes flickering from shadow to shadow on the ceiling. He laughs too much; he loses himself in conversation, drifting; he runs his hand through his hair, lingering on stray syllables, and gestures in the dark as they talk about nothing and everything: baklava and sudden death, hamsters and moonless nights. Patrick disagrees with him constantly and he loves it.</p><p>He pours more wine and flicks on the heat as their conversation drifts to family. He shares how his family lost everything, how he moved back to New York out of embarrassment. He learns Patrick is an only child, that he grew up with a treehouse and a dirt bike, that his cousins moved away when he was fourteen. His voice trails a bit as he describes this and David wonders how desperately lonely he was, alone in Ontario. Then he remembers he was desperately lonely, surrounded in L.A., and decides against asking.</p><p>“What about you, David? Just you and your sister?”</p><p>“Yes.” He sits by the window again, looking at the city, and thinks about her -- somewhere abroad, incommunicado. “Alexis.” He pauses, smirking softly. “When my mom was coming off all the pregnancy meds, she kept repeating that she wanted a Lexis. So that’s how she got her name. Which she doesn’t know. She thinks she was named for the meaning in Greek.”</p><p>“Which is?”</p><p>“Defender of mankind. A bit much for her.”</p><p>“And how did you get your name, David?” asks Patrick; his tone is almost affectionate, which makes David’s pulse pick up in a telling, exasperating way.</p><p>“I got my name because it was the only one my paternal and maternal grandparents could agree on,” he says. “Apparently King David is one figure Jews and Catholics can both admire.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>King</em> David.”</p><p>“Yes, it’s ironic now and not in a good way.”</p><p>“Yeah, wasn’t he rags to riches?”</p><p>“Mhm, shepherd boy to king. Whereas I…”</p><p>“So have you picked out a pasture yet?”</p><p>David dips his head down, trying not to laugh again. God, he’s laughing too much. Too genuinely. He’s too fond, too early. Besides Stevie, he’s never met someone who isn’t intimidated by him. Someone who isn’t thrown off by his humor or his appearance. Someone who could somehow, someday understand him.</p><p>“Okay, I will not be shepherding any time soon,” he replies. “I don’t do animals.”</p><p>“No, you just run over them.”</p><p>“Correct,” says David, nodding and finishing his wine. He sets the empty glass aside and adds more softly, “So where are you right now?”</p><p>Dangerous question. He doesn’t care. </p><p>“I’m in the Village.”</p><p>“Me too, where?”</p><p>“Right by Minetta Triangle?”</p><p>“Oh, me too, I’m on Carmine.”</p><p>“I’m waving to you, I’m sure you can see it--”</p><p>David cracks up. He was about to ask him to come over, but this joke cuts that urge down. <em>Don’t treat him like a hookup. He’s more than that and you know it.</em></p><p> “Uh-huh. So how did you break your sink?”</p><p>“I didn’t break it. It broke.”</p><p>“Mhm. But you’re fixing it. Are you a secret handyman, or…?”</p><p>“No, not at all, I watched a lot of YouTube tutorials and they didn’t help. And I hurt my neck.”</p><p>“Oh,” David says, a little breathier than usual. “Try this. Did you hurt the right or left side?”</p><p>Patrick takes a moment to answer, and when he does, he’s cautious. “Left. Are you going to make this worse, David?”</p><p>“No. But if I do, I’ll make it better next time I see you.”</p><p>“How will you do that?”</p><p>David smirks, touching his thumb to his lips. “You’ll find out.”</p><p>Patrick swallows. “Okay.”</p><p>“So...use your right hand...find where it hurts...and push into it, hard.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes. Now bend your head in the opposite direction. And keep doing that.”</p><p>He waits, leaning back in his chair, eyes finding the ceiling. Then Patrick makes a noise that’s almost a moan and his pulse jumps hard.</p><p>“Was that, um, a good noise you just made?”</p><p>“Yeah, that <em>worked</em>.”</p><p>David’s lips twitch in a jaunty, oversaturated smile. “I told you.”</p><p>“Wish I knew about this when I played in college.”</p><p>“Played?”</p><p>“Baseball, sorry... thank you.”</p><p>“I played Little League once. It was terrifying. I only did it because my dad made me.”</p><p>“Yeah, my dad made me too,” says Patrick. “But I loved it.”</p><p>“I didn’t. I always got hit in the back. Too many times to be accidental. And the other boys came up with a nickname that is unrepeatable but, to their credit, <em>very</em> creative.”</p><p>“Did you stick with it?”</p><p>“The nickname?”</p><p>“No, David. Baseball.”</p><p>“What do you think?”</p><p>“Guessing no.”</p><p>“No,” David agrees, but a smile flits over his lips, unbidden, and he adds, “I think my dad just wanted me to try. So when I quit, he didn’t complain. Same with working for his company. I interned for a day, barely survived, and he sent me a pizza that night with a note.”</p><p>“What did it say?” asks Patrick, voice warm despite being scratchy with fatigue.</p><p>“It said...<em>you tried, you’re fired, go to Paris</em>.” He pauses. “I had been applying for this design position there, I didn’t get it, but I went anyway and...that’s one of the only times I did something I actually wanted to do.” His expression falters. “I know what people think. But they didn’t deserve what happened to them. My parents.”</p><p>He’s drunk if he just said that.</p><p>“They started from nothing,” he adds. “Really. My dad grew up in a one-room apartment in Montreal and my mom was born in the middle of literally nowhere in Missouri.”</p><p>“Yeah, I -- I actually knew that, because in high school I worked at Rose Video, and the story of the company was in all the onboarding info.”</p><p>David’s expression swirls into a dramatic, offended scoff. “You worked at Rose Video and you’re mentioning this now?”</p><p>“A lot of people worked at Rose Video, David.”</p><p>“Um, you are not a lot of people, <em>you</em> are the man I’m on the phone with right now, and you didn’t bring up Rose Video?”</p><p>“It wasn’t relevant.”</p><p>David presses his lips together, then murmurs, “You’re wrong, it is, and now you have to tell me everything.”</p><p>“All I was going to say,” Patrick goes on, patient, “is that I remember being impressed.”</p><p>“Okay, now you’re lying--”</p><p>“I’m not, I swear, I thought the business model was amazing and that onboarding video?”</p><p>“Oh my God, you saw the video...”</p><p>“The production value? Incomparable.”</p><p>“Fuck off! That was the 80’s, my father was very misguided, it is not his fault he filmed a training video in a white suit, by the ocean, with backup dancers.”</p><p>“I loved it,” Patrick says. “The opening score? Your mom’s cameo as an interested customer?”</p><p>David covers his face, rocking back and forth. “Oh my God. Oh God. We still watch that every year. On the anniversary of opening. And every single time, my mom says the same thing.”</p><p>“Why did you wear that suit?” guesses Patrick.</p><p>“No -- I mean, yes, she says that too -- but she always says, ‘Oh John, look at all the bright young minds you inspired.’ Inspired. By that video. <em>That</em> video.”</p><p>“I thought it was inspiring. You know, in a <em>Saturday Night Fever</em> kind of way--”</p><p>“I hate you. I hate this.”</p><p>“No, seriously David,” Patrick says after a moment, much softer. “I remember that video because it was smart. Not the outfits or the music. The message.”</p><p>“Which was…? I was distracted by my mother’s lines.”</p><p>“Yeah, understandable. The message was that the business couldn’t make it without everyone. And that anyone could make the business better. It was really genuine.”</p><p>“You actually remember that?”</p><p>“I actually remember that.”</p><p>David presses his lips together. Courage swirls in his chest like a storm and he sits forward. “Can I tell you something?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“I have -- an idea.” He breathes in, one elbow on his knee, one big hand spiraling through the air as he talks. “I want...to open a store…a general store, local vendors. Vendors who can’t make it in the city. I would make them make it in the city. It would be...their brands, my store...like a gallery, but for food and wine and yarn and soap and…”</p><p>“So, consignment?”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“It’s what you’re describing, David.”</p><p>“Oh. Then yes. Consignment.”</p><p>“You’d focus on vendors who don’t want to resell. Who want to keep their branding but need someone else to sell what they have.”</p><p>Patrick’s voice has taken on a discerning, deliberate quality that David’s not sure how to interpret.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“That’s a good idea, David.” </p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes. How far are you?”</p><p>“This far?”</p><p>“So you don’t have a business partner?”</p><p>“...no?”</p><p>“Funding?”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“Good,” says Patrick.</p><p>David makes a face. “Good?”</p><p>“Not good that you don’t have funding, good that you don’t have a partner and I know how to get funding.”</p><p>David slowly nods. Did he fall on the ice earlier? Did he hit his head? Is he in the emergency room for the first time, talking to the air? Is Patrick offering what it sounds like he’s offering?</p><p>“So...so you…” He frowns, gesturing for divine assistance. “Are you -- do you know what you’re doing?”</p><p>“I majored in business and I’m getting my MBA.”</p><p>“Oh.” He swallows. The air is suddenly thick and his voice is suddenly small. “Okay. Do you think you can actually--”</p><p>“Get the funding? Yes, David.”</p><p>Holy fuck. Who knew that voice could transform into something so authoritative? David tries to ignore that he’s donezo for this guy, that he’s hanging on every letter of every word, almost breathless with hope. Ew, <em>hope</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” he says, very breathy. “You sound a little too sure.”</p><p>“No,” says Patrick. “Just sure enough.”</p><p>David raises his brows. “Ah huh, um.” He frowns, abruptly sober, and nods. “Okay.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Patrick breathes out and replies after a beat, “Okay. Maybe we could talk more about this tomorrow--”</p><p>“At Ronnie’s?” David interrupts. When Patrick doesn’t answer, he adds, “Ronnie’s Cafe? 10th and Hudson?” He smirks, soft and affectionate. “How long have you lived here?”</p><p>“Not long.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says gently. “I’ll send you the address.” He pauses. “<em>How</em> long?”</p><p>“Three months. I…” Patrick trails off; based on his tone, he’s on the edge of a confession, one David desperately wants to hear. Who moves here from Ontario at his age? Something happened. Something he’s not sure he should divulge yet. “I was engaged for five years.”</p><p>David holds suddenly still. This is it. Sooner than he expected.</p><p>“And I ended it three months ago. And moved here.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, cautious. </p><p>“She wasn't angry,” Patrick says. “She was just...sad, and confused. And she asked me why and I couldn't tell her.”</p><p><em>She</em>. David tries to swallow his disappointment. He tells himself not to assume anything -- <em>he</em> dates women after all. </p><p>“Because you didn't understand why?” he asks softly.</p><p>“No I did, I just couldn't put it into words, not -- not to her.”</p><p>David knows this is bold, but he can’t help himself. “Maybe you could tell me.”</p><p>A deep breath before the plunge. “I never loved her the way I should have loved someone I was getting married to. I -- I loved her but I wasn't in love with her. And I couldn't be in love with her. And I think she knew that, some part of her knew that, but she thought being with me was the only way she could be happy. I think she thought something was wrong with her...when there was really something wrong with me. And that's the hardest part, that I left her feeling broken like that, when it had nothing to do with her.”</p><p>David is suddenly aware he opened a door he’s not prepared to walk through. He wasn’t expecting something so honest, so articulate. His chest twinges. How does he respond to something so dismal when he’s incapable of sincerity? </p><p>“Um,” he manages. “Maybe you should tell her that.”</p><p>“I did, over and over. But she always thought I was just being nice.”</p><p>“Well,” David says, tone brighter, “as fucked as some of my breakups have been, at least they ended for a reason that could be expressed. Well, yelled. Usually yelled.”</p><p>“It's been awkward with my parents. They loved Rachel. My mom was really excited. She thought we'd have children. All that. And it was such a small town. I would run into her at the grocery store. I would run into her parents. And I could never explain myself. So I had to get out, so I came to New York. I know that's stupid. At least it sounds stupid--”</p><p>“It's not stupid,” David says firmly. “And lucky for you, you have someone who will make sure you don't get eaten alive here.”</p><p>“I do?” Patrick asks. “Oh.”</p><p>“It's the least I can do,” says David. “You made sure I didn't fail my class.”</p><p>“There's still time for that,” Patrick tells him.</p><p>David smirks, nodding. “Can I ask you something?”</p><p>“Sure,” says Patrick, but his voice is slightly strained. </p><p>“What made you finally leave her?”</p><p>“I just...found myself packing for New York instead of my honeymoon.”</p><p>David knows he’s lying; he knows there was a specific, messy moment that ended things for good, but he doesn’t pursue it. This belongs to Patrick. He isn’t going to corner him into coming out. It’s obvious enough. He’s on the phone with him after flirting all day. David would be shocked if he declined an invitation to come over -- his curiosity alone would probably drive him. But he’s not going to take advantage of that, not going to press him. Never, never. He deserves better, David’s getting better, this is going to be <em>better</em>. </p><p>“Well,” he says, very soft. “I think you did the right thing.”</p><p>“Thanks,” says Patrick, like he’s been waiting for approval and vindication for months. Years. Like David is the first person who sees him.</p><p>He smiles. “Mhm. So. You hired yourself at my company. That happened.”</p><p>“Maybe it’s our company.”</p><p>“Oh, is it?”</p><p>“Seems like it, David.”</p><p>David’s lips dip in a loving, exasperated smirk. “So my business partner is someone from rural Ontario, who has been here three months?”</p><p>“Yeah, bold choice--”</p><p>“Very. What was I thinking?” </p><p>“No idea.”</p><p>David glances down. He doesn’t want to get off the phone yet. He wants the lights to fade to Patrick’s voice. Wants his life to play to it. He wants this cascade of wanting.</p><p>“Blueberry pancakes,” he says abruptly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Those are your favorite?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Okay what?” Patrick laughs.</p><p>“Nothing,” says David. “No reason.”</p><p>“So, you have a reason for asking, but you won’t tell me.”</p><p>“Correct.”</p><p>“Okay, David.”</p><p>David wishes Patrick was across from him on the sofa so he could study his expression; he’s sure he’s reading too much into his voice, his perfect, expressive voice. He also wishes he was here so he could pull him into a messy kiss and stumble with him into his room. He swipes his thumb along his bottom lip, almost soft, and breathes in. </p><p>“I should let you fix your sink.”</p><p>“You should keep me on the phone so I don’t have to.”</p><p>“You don’t need your sink?”</p><p>“Not tonight.”</p><p>“What do you need tonight?” </p><p>“Not sure I should answer that, David.”</p><p>David smirks. He loves to make guys dizzy. To push them off the edge. Usually it’s fun, but tonight it’s more -- tonight it matters.</p><p>“Did you finish your homework?” Patrick adds. </p><p>“I tried to, but I was sitting in on my roommate’s audition and that was very distracting. Also, I was up most of the night so I came back and took a nap for six hours.”</p><p>“Same. Why were you up?”</p><p>“Oh, because she dropped the fact she’d be auditioning on me at midnight, so I ran lines with her until four.”</p><p>“And you said you never do anything nice for anyone.”</p><p>David smiles more softly. “Okay. Some people. A tiny, handpicked group.” </p><p>“You seem close. The way you talk about her.”</p><p>“We are.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve never had that many friends,” says Patrick. “And now I'm 33 and I'm wondering what I did wrong and how I should find someone. Anyone. Like, how does anybody find anybody?”</p><p>“I’m not the best person to ask. You know how I met her?”</p><p>“No, tell me.”</p><p>“When I moved back here, I moved in with my ex. I couldn’t afford rent on my own. He’s the worst but he’s very rich.”</p><p>“He let you move back in?”</p><p>“Oh, you say that like it was my fault we broke up.”</p><p>“What did he do?”</p><p>“The first time? He cheated on me for months. The second time, he cheated on me for months and got high every night. And he, um…” David takes a breath. “Wasn’t very nice when he was high.” </p><p>“God, I’m sorry,” Patrick murmurs; his tone is soft, but there’s something heavy under the surface. Something protective, angry. </p><p>David swallows. “It’s okay--”</p><p>“No, it’s not.”</p><p>David looks down, trying not to smile. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, my roommate sent him a cake laced with laxatives--”</p><p>“Just laxatives?”</p><p>“I had to talk her down from ricin.”</p><p>“Yeah, that seems more appropriate.”</p><p>“Why is everyone I like down for casual murder?”</p><p>“It wouldn’t be casual, David. It would be intentional.”</p><p>“My God. Maybe I have a type.”</p><p>“Prison-bound?”</p><p>David laughs, nodding. “Yes, yes…” He glances up as the door clicks open, catching Stevie’s gaze as she walks in, and adds to Patrick, “Are prisons nice in Canada?”</p><p>“I don’t think they’re nice anywhere, David.”</p><p>“They are! I would move to Norway just to commit a crime and go to prison there.”</p><p>“That’s smart, actually. Free housing.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>Stevie drifts by the couch, watching him with a wrinkle on her brow, and sets a pizza and some groceries on the kitchen table. </p><p>“Stevie is home,” he says. “And she has pizza. So I may have to go.”</p><p>“Roberta’s?”</p><p>“Mm good memory, no.” He leans to study the pizza box. “I think it’s from Roll and Go because someone has no taste buds!”</p><p>Stevie smiles from the kitchen as she pours some wine, flipping him off.</p><p>“Isn’t that a sushi place?” asks Patrick.</p><p>“Yes, yes it is. So contemplate the quality of the pizza.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. “Okay, David. I’ll let you go.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, sleepy. “Goodnight.”</p><p>“Night.” </p><p>He tosses his phone aside, then puts his hands over his face and smiles. Stevie comes up to him with a slice of pizza in one hand and some wine in the other. She’s frowning, fascinated, a little smug.</p><p>“So who was <em>that</em>?” she whispers, sitting beside him.</p><p>“No one, a guy.”</p><p>“What guy?”</p><p>“A guy.”</p><p>He can’t tell her. If he tells her and this turns into anything at all, one night or a thousand, he’ll never live it down. </p><p>“A guy from where?”</p><p>“Class.”</p><p>“You don’t go to class.”</p><p>He throws his arm along the couch in annoyance and says, “Math Lab.”</p><p>Her lips form a little oval, overly pleased. “Oh. <em>That</em> guy.”</p><p>“No -- no <em>oh</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” she says, voice dripping with satisfaction.</p><p>“It’s nothing, we were...going over a question.”</p><p>“No you weren’t, and I know you’ve been on the phone for…” She stops and pulls hers out to check. “Two hours because I texted you ten times about which toppings you wanted. You have never not responded to a topping text.”</p><p>“It was a complicated problem.”</p><p>“Oh, was it?”</p><p>“Very.”</p><p>“Okay.” She takes a big bite of pizza, leans on him, and adds, “I’ve never heard your voice like that.”</p><p>David doesn’t answer because she’s right.</p><p>“If you don’t date him, you’re an idiot,” she adds through a bite.</p><p>David breathes in, leaning his head back, and smiles faintly. Stevie turns, eyes wide, and her lips tremble with uncontainable amusement.</p><p>“Oh my God. Look at you, David.” </p><p>“Please fuck off--”</p><p>“You’re glowing.”</p><p>“That’s my bronzer.”</p><p>“No. It’s <em>not</em>.”</p><p>David glances at her, raising his brows. “Are you done?”</p><p>“What’s his name?” she asks, taking her phone from her jacket. “I want to stalk him.”</p><p>“Even if I wanted to tell you, which I don’t, I couldn’t, because I only have his first name.”</p><p>She gestures at him to go on and he relents, smiling again.</p><p>“Patrick.”</p><p>She nods. “So. You do realize that you only met him because of me.”</p><p>“Eat glass, Stevie,” he says in his softest, suavest tone.</p><p>“So I get to take credit for the healthiest relationship you’ve ever had.”</p><p>“Um, this isn’t a relationship.” He gets up for a slice of pizza, very satisfied, and adds, “Yet. Then he points at her. “Don’t let me fuck this up. He is a precious, delicate button and he doesn’t deserve my…”</p><p>He trails off as Stevie smiles.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” he demands.</p><p>“You aren’t going to fuck this up,” she says gently. “You literally cried at the thought of this guy last night, so…”</p><p>“Okay, you won’t be bringing that up to him. Ever.”</p><p>“I think it’s sweet.”</p><p>“It’s not. It’s pathetic and very concerning.” </p><p>He grabs a slice of pizza and returns to the couch, looking at her as he takes a bite. She flicks the stem of her wine glass and smiles to herself.</p><p>“So. You aren’t the only one with news tonight.” </p><p>He holds still, unwilling to believe it until she confirms his suspicions. She gives a tiny, trembling smile and nods at his questioning gaze.</p><p>“You booked it?” he half-shouts.</p><p>“I booked it.” </p><p>“Oh -- oh my God!” He grabs her shoulders and shakes them. “You booked it! Oh my God! Stevie!”</p><p>She laughs and hugs him. “Calm down!”</p><p>“Holy fuck! Stevie! Do -- do you know how big this is?”</p><p>“Maybe our lives don’t suck.”</p><p>He nods, then rests his chin on the top of her head. “I mean. They do. Just less.”</p><p>She laughs, then jokes, “They’re still looking for Cliff.”</p><p>“I cannot sing and I don’t want to kiss you.”</p><p>“And the Emcee.”</p><p>“Don’t have the pecs for that.”</p><p>“Okay, but if you’re not <em>in</em> rehearsal with me, you’re coming to all of them.”</p><p>“Obviously,” he agrees. He pulls back to look at her, smiling hard. “I’m happy for you.”</p><p>“I’m happy for you,” she replies, smirking.T hen she wrinkles her nose. "This is gross."</p><p>“This conversation or the pizza?”</p><p>“Both.”</p><p>He nods, slouching into a more comfortable position, and tips his head back on the couch. He closes his eyes, breathes out, and his lips twitch in a tiny, certain smile.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick skids past the theater, nearly falls, recovers on the doorframe, and stumbles into a gaggle of other auditionees.</p><p>He wasn’t going to audition. He saw Cabaret once, with his mom, a questionable local production in Elmdale. He didn’t remember loving it; he didn’t remember much at all. But after waking up at four in the morning, buzzing with David-induced energy, energy that wanted him to walk in the snow like a lunatic to David’s place, energy he couldn’t displace or disperse with a shower, breakfast, reading...he sat down at his kitchen table with the flyer that crossed his desk yesterday.</p><p><em>Open call.</em> He found a script online and decided to go for it. He didn’t move here to stay in his shell. If he’s going to find the bravery to ask David out -- which he is, damn it -- then he can find the bravery to audition for a production of Cabaret. </p><p>He flicks some coffee off his hand (it spilled during his mad rush) and glances at the woman nearest him. She’s pretty in an elfin way, wearing an overlarge flannel and jeans, unlike the other designer-dressed hopefuls. She’s pulled her sable hair into a messy bun and she’s hugging a thick book to her chest.</p><p>She seems more approachable than anyone else. Slightly, at least. So he drinks some coffee from his tumbler and steps closer.</p><p>“Am I super late?”</p><p>She smirks without looking at him. “No. The director is an alcoholic, so if call is eight, it’s actually nine. Sometimes noon.” Then she looks over. “I would introduce myself, but we’ve been given specific directions to stay in character. So I’m Sally.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m -- hopefully Cliff.”</p><p>She nods, raising her brows. “You look like you have better oral hygiene than the Cliff who auditioned yesterday. So don’t blow this.”</p><p>“To be honest, not sure what I’m doing here.”</p><p>“I’ve never sung in my life, so. You can’t be the worst one here.”</p><p>“And you’re playing Sally?”</p><p>She pops her brows higher. “Yeah. So this is gonna be a great production.”</p><p>He slowly grins. She reminds him of someone.</p><p>“Any tips for auditioning? Given you already got Sally?”</p><p>“The director is going to interrupt you. And he’s going to ask you to do things you’re philosophically opposed to. Just roll with it.”</p><p>“Right. Who’s directing this?”</p><p>“Clifton Sparks.”</p><p>“That name sounds familiar.”</p><p>“He played that nutty doctor on Sunrise Bay.”</p><p>Patrick thinks instantly of David and his heart misses several beats. He glances at his shoes and smiles. “Huh.” </p><p>“What?” she asks.</p><p>“Nothing, just -- that show’s been coming up a lot for me lately.”</p><p>“It <em>is</em> the herpes of daytime soaps.” She tweaks her bun, puts a hand on her hip, and tilts her head back as they wait. “I could have stayed in bed ten more minutes.”</p><p>He gestures at the book tucked under her arm. “What’s that you’ve got?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s a French-German dictionary, my roommate got it for me.” She hands it to him. “You can have it. I’d rather die than look anything up in that.” </p><p>“Yeah, do -- do you know any German?”</p><p>“None. My roommate speaks French so he’s been helping with that. But there’s way more German.”</p><p>“How does the audience understand it?”</p><p>“Apparently, not understanding everything is part of the art.”</p><p>“Who said that?”</p><p>“My roommate. He said that it’s an important, immersive experience for the audience.”</p><p>“Yeah, I like to feel as confused as possible when I see a play," says Patrick. "You talk a lot about your roommate.”</p><p>“He <em>is</em> a lot.” She glances to the left as a middle-aged man strolls in. “Brace yourself.”</p><p>They watch as Clifton circles through the dancers, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, and then he spots them in the corner. He throws his hands up. </p><p>“Ah! There’s my Sally!” He presses his hands to his mouth, throws a kiss at her, then approaches and squeezes her arms. “Oh, you are perfect. You have such a...sorrowful, smoky visage.”</p><p>“Okay,” she manages.</p><p>“How’s David?” Clifton adds.</p><p>Patrick twitches in excitement, then reminds himself that’s a very common name. He’s probably asking about her boyfriend or her brother.</p><p>“He’s -- fine,” she replies.</p><p>“Good, good...And this must be our Clifford! The great American novelist! Would you two be amenable to sleeping together? I believe that would give your performances more authenticity.”</p><p>Her eyes widen in appalled amusement. “Wow. No.” She glances at Patrick. “No offense.”</p><p>“Oh, none taken.”</p><p>Clifton turns his attention back on Patrick. “Cliff, you say? Mm.” He chews on his glasses with vigor. Then he turns, takes a flask from his pocket, and addresses the others. “Hello darlings, where are my Kit Kat dancers?”</p><p>“Is he drunk?” Patrick checks.</p><p>“Tipsy. We have a few hours until he’s drunk.”</p><p>“Should I bail while I have the chance?”</p><p>“No, because you seem relatively sane, and we’ll be working together a lot.”</p><p>Clifton circles back like a fancy vulture, motioning at her and Patrick, and takes a script from an unsuspecting Kit Kat dancer. He flips through it after wetting his finger on his tongue, then nods to himself. He points offstage. </p><p>“Yes, yes, let’s go backstage for this…”</p><p>Patrick looks at the woman. “Is this the audition?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she murmurs, resigned. </p><p>Clifton throws open the door to the dressing rooms and says, “Sally, yours please.”</p><p>She unlocks her dressing room and steps inside. It’s typically small, in disarray. There’s a pizza box, an extra pair of sneakers, and several old books. She puts her hands on her hips, waiting. Clifton hangs back, murmuring how this is an important role and he needs his number two, then shouts, “Tippy!” at the top of his lungs down the hall. Patrick winces and Sally shakes her head in solidarity.</p><p>Another man appears, jostling scripts, and gestures for an explanation. He’s shaped like the Flatiron and he's wearing a suit that belongs on an infomercial. </p><p>“Cliff is here! Well, potentially, come watch!”</p><p>Tippy surveys Patrick, interested, and sighs as he tosses his scripts aside. He comes down the hall, which he barely fits through, and squeezes into the dressing room with the rest of them. Clifton keeps turning pages, then pauses, pointing out the passage to Tippy, who nods in agreement. </p><p>“Yes. Okay. From ‘That’s quite a coat.’”</p><p>Patrick startles when they both look at him, fumbling with his script. “Sorry. What page…?” Then his phone dings. He reaches for it automatically, thinking of David, and falters when he sees the text he actually got.</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:16: Look I know how things are between us but it’s been forever since we talked so, are you around tonight?</em>
</p><p>He hastily pockets his phone and apologizes again. Now he’s going to fuck up for sure. Rachel, after months. Out of nowhere. Like she knows he’s branching out. Like she knows someone else made him happy last night.</p><p>“Page 32,” says Tippy. “Now, Cliff, remember. You are tortured. Sexually confused. As desperate for a connection as Sally. Can you handle that?”</p><p>Patrick presses his lips together, then murmurs, “Yep.”</p><p>Clifton gestures at him like he’s conducting an orchestra. “Then go on.”</p><p>He steadies himself and nods. “That’s quite a coat.”</p><p>“It should be!” the woman says. Her accent’s not quite right. A strange blend of Emily Blunt and Mrs. Doubtfire. “It cost me all I had. Little did I realize how soon I’d be unemployed.”</p><p>
  <em>I know how things are between us.</em>
</p><p>She still feels bad, that’s clear. She still expects him to. Should he? Does he? David cast a giddy fog over his usual rationality, and now he’s mid-audition, wondering if his perception is off. </p><p>“Sorry,” he says again, adding to Sally, “I gather your friend Max runs the Kit Kat Club?”</p><p>His phone dings again. He silences it without looking at the message. </p><p>Tippy raises his brows. “Is that important?” </p><p>“No, it’s my ex.”</p><p>Ex has always sounded too cold to him. It’s never sounded accurate. But he doesn’t think there’s a one-word equivalent for <em>woman I dated because I didn’t know what else to do or know myself well enough not to.</em></p><p>Clifton nods with pained understanding. “They have a sixth sense, do they not?” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “So. From Sally’s line.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re divinely intuitive! I hope I’m not going to fall madly in love with you--”</p><p>“No, this isn’t working for me,” mutters Tippy, stealing the script and turning pages. “Let’s see...yes, 50, from ‘I wish I was less distracting’...”</p><p>Patrick’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he leans his head back in annoyance, then hurries to find the page. </p><p>“I wish I was less distracting,” the woman says.  </p><p>“It’s true,” says Patrick. “Nobody could work with you around. Not Hemingway, not Tolstoy, not even Proust--”</p><p>“He probably could,” she mutters, out of character.</p><p>He chuckles, catching her eye, then continues, “Oh, no, Sally, I didn’t mean…”</p><p>“But it’s time, Cliff. I’ve never stayed with anyone so long. One must keep mobile, musn’t one?”</p><p>He drifts to lean on her vanity. “What’s the matter? Got a better offer?”</p><p>“Dozens,” she says. “I’ve never stayed so long with anyone. I’m sure you’ve offers, too.”</p><p>“Oh, dozens,” he replies. “A couple.”</p><p>She throws him a look.</p><p>“Not one,” he admits. </p><p>“Not even Bobby?”</p><p>He stares at her as his phone buzzes again. The dressing room melts away like he dreamed it, and he’s standing on a sandstone cliff overlooking a valley, his favorite spot when he needed to hike it all off, forget everything. </p><p>He thinks of David. Lately, when he needs courage, confidence, a kick to do anything, he thinks of David.</p><p>“He phoned today, by the way…” </p><p>Patrick must have perfected Cliff’s reaction, or blown it, because Tippy puts his script down and stares at him. Clifton takes off his glasses, chews on the stem again, and nods after a moment. He smiles slightly. Patrick, despite having no respect for this guy, knows he’ll remember that smile the rest of his life. </p><p>“Continue!” Tippy urges.</p><p>“Don’t go,” Patrick says, moving toward Sally.</p><p>“What?” she breathes. </p><p>“Please,” he says, and he knows his broken tone; he’s heard it before. “Don’t go.”</p><p>“Really?” she asks, withdrawn but hopeful.</p><p>“The hell with Bobby. Maybe -- I like you here. I need you. I need -- the truth is, Sally, when you’re out all night, I can’t sleep. Our little bed suddenly seems so empty. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Anyone at all.”</p><p>He feels this when he says it. Feels the words drag his heart out of his mouth. Feels shaky and powerful and slightly sick.</p><p>“You truly mean this?” she asks.</p><p>“More than I’ve ever meant anything.” </p><p>They both stop, staring at each other as the scene stretches like spider silk.</p><p>“Now,” says Clifton, very softly, “that’s an audition! Tippy?”</p><p>“Do you two know each other?” asks Tippy.</p><p>“I don’t know anyone," says Patrick. "I just moved here.”</p><p>“From?” asks Tippy.</p><p>“Ontario.”</p><p>“Perfect! The Canadian Pennsylvania! ” says Clifton. </p><p>Tippy tosses his script. “Now, you’ll talk to Rebecca in HR, sign the tedious whatevers in case a sandbag falls on you, then ask for our stage manager and she’ll give you the schedule for next week.” </p><p>“Sally,” says Clifton, “why don’t you show him around?”</p><p>“Is that part of my job?”</p><p>“It is now,” says Clifton, popping his flask open and winking. </p><p>He spills out of the dressing room, steadies himself on her shoulder, and pats Tippy’s arm as he exits. Tippy looks at Patrick to reassure him.</p><p>“He’s on the up and up,” he says. “Strictly a scotch man now. Oh, Ms. Budd...” He digs for some keys and hands them over. “You can unlock dressing room 6 for this young man.”</p><p>He follows Clifton out, leaving her and Patrick alone, and she breathes out in a huff before she looks at him.</p><p>“Isn’t Sally’s last name Bowles?” he asks.</p><p>“Yeah, Tippy isn’t as concerned as Clifton about method -- I’m Stevie.”</p><p>That name sounds distantly familiar, but he ignores this.</p><p>“Patrick,” he replies.</p><p>She raises her brows, intrigued, but doesn’t comment. She hikes her bag on her shoulder and nods out the door so he steps into the hall. She sorts through the keys Tippy handed her and walks a few doors down.</p><p>“All yours,” she tells him. </p><p>“That was a quick audition,” he floats, glancing around.</p><p>“Mine was fast too. They’re either really decisive or they don’t care. This might be a <em>Producers</em> situation.”</p><p>He glances at her, uncomprehending, and she frowns in amusement.</p><p>“You’re playing Cliff and you didn’t get that reference?”</p><p>“You’re playing Sally and you don’t sing,” he reminds her.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean I can’t sing,” she says, quickly adding, “I can’t, I’m an actor not a singer.”</p><p>“Yeah, and I’m a musician, not an actor, so…”</p><p>“Like I said. This is going to be great.”</p><p>He chuckles, then glances up as a woman pauses in the doorway, blonde hair trembling in agitation. She’s wearing a blouse that is too floral to be described as just floral. It’s <em>advanced</em> floral. She brightens at the sight of Stevie and smiles. </p><p>Stevie does too. “So this is Patrick, he’s playing Cliff--”</p><p>“Hi!” the woman exclaims, stepping in to vigorously shake his hand. “I’m Jocelyn, I’m the stage manager, you must have so many questions!” When he doesn’t answer, she continues, “Okay! Still surprised I see! Let me get you a script and a call sheet. Or do you already have those? Sorry, crazy day! Our costume designer just quit.”</p><p>Stevie steps forward. “Wait, really? I know someone.”</p><p>“You know a costume designer who’s free?” Jocelyn asks breathlessly. "<em>This</em> time of year?”</p><p>“He’s not a costume designer but he’ll know what to do,” she says, pulling her phone out to text. "And if he doesn't get a job soon I'll have a body on my hands."</p><p>“Well,” says Jocelyn, tilting her head in resignation. “What’s his name?”</p><p>“You wouldn’t know him,” she says, texting rapidly. </p><p>“Well, let me know!” says Jocelyn, then disappears at a fast clip.</p><p>Stevie nods, distracted, then pockets her phone. </p><p>“So,” she says, hands on her hips. “What else do you want to know?”</p><p>Patrick hesitates. “When’s opening?”</p><p>“Two months.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s…”</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, concerned. </p><p>Jocelyn returns with a script and call sheet and brandishes them at Patrick, then smiles. “You are exactly who I pictured for our Cliff.” She unloads some trousers and shirts from her other arm, adding, “Try these on and let me know if they’re awful. I really don’t know! We need that costume designer!” </p><p>She ends with a nervous laugh, sighs, drinks some water from a bottle strapped to her hip, and rushes out again.</p><p>“She seems like she could use a break.”</p><p>“Yeah, you have no idea, she’s the only one here who knows what she’s doing.”</p><p>Patrick nods, about to speak, but turns as a familiar, snappy voice interrupts. </p><p>“I was in the neighborhood, what do you want?” </p><p>Patrick freezes as David appears in the door. David, as usual, looks so handsome it’s unfair. He’s wearing a sweater with a black and white mosaic under a leather jacket. His phone is clamped in his hand.</p><p>“Say hello to your new workplace,” says Stevie.</p><p>“That is not happening--”</p><p>“David, this fell in your lap.”</p><p>“I’m not a huge fan of 30’s Berlin. Maybe 2030’s Berlin. We’ll see.”</p><p>“I don’t care if you’re a fan or not, this is a job, two minutes from our apartment, and the pay isn’t horrible.”</p><p>“Isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes, but it’s money.”</p><p>He covers his face, mumbling at God for assistance, and steps further inside the dressing room. When he drops his hands, he sees Patrick in the reflection of the mirror and stiffens in shock. He fights a spontaneous smile. </p><p>“Um. Stevie. What’s going on here?”</p><p>Stevie gestures in confusion. “What?”</p><p>Patrick’s gaze drifts to Stevie. Suddenly her name is crystal in his memory. David’s roommate. David’s the guy she’s been talking about all day. The guy that knows French. The guy who’s a lot. </p><p>She opens her mouth around a smirk. A knowing, infuriating smirk, like she just confirmed aliens in Area 51. Her eyes widen as she looks at David. </p><p>“Wait. <em>This</em> Patrick is <em>your</em> Patrick?”</p><p>David nods, slightly crazed. “Mhm. I’m having a bit of an out of body experience right now.”</p><p>“Oh my God!”</p><p>“Could you kindly fuck off?”</p><p>“No.” She turns to Patrick. “Do you know what you’re getting into?”</p><p>He manages to look at David directly and he says, “Think so.”</p><p>David presses his lips together, softening. “Okay. This is all very surreal but I’m concerned you just got cast as Cliff and you’ll be hanging out with Stevie for two months, because she knows <em>far</em> too much about me for that to happen.”</p><p>“Soon he will too,” says Stevie, nodding obnoxiously. </p><p>“<em>Did</em> you get Cliff?” asks David.</p><p>Patrick collects himself, having stared helplessly at David for the last minute. “I did, yeah. How did you know?”</p><p>“Just knew,” says David, starting to smile.</p><p>Patrick swallows. He wasn’t prepared to see David after last night. It’s like they hooked up and are seeing each other in daylight for the first time.</p><p>“So, I’ll be going,” Stevie says wisely.</p><p>David catches her by her shoulders. “No, I’m taking you both to brunch.”</p><p>“Not sensing you want me there,” she says.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t, but I promised you bottomless bacon for getting Sally.”</p><p>“Raincheck,” Stevie says. “And you need to talk to our stage manager. Go ask for Jocelyn.”</p><p>“Ugh! I am not taking this job!”</p><p>She eyes him dangerously.</p><p>He hesitates, delicately gestures, and adds in a small voice, “I will consider taking this job after I see what I have to work with.”</p><p>“I thought we were starting a business,” Patrick says.</p><p>David turns. “We are. But meanwhile...” He pauses. “Would it be so bad to have me here?”</p><p>“No,” Patrick says sincerely. </p><p>Stevie watches this exchange, holding still, a wildlife photographer waiting for two deer to tenderly touch noses. </p><p>“Okay,” says David, soft. “Where’s Jacqueline?”</p><p>***</p><p>“No, no, see, this collar is wrong.”</p><p>Patrick’s been waiting for David for nearly two hours. He’s sitting outside wardrobe, sitting cross-legged on a bench with Stevie, running lines. </p><p>“No, it needs to dip, Jocelyn, <em>dip</em> like a Roman drape.”</p><p>“Did not realize he knows this much about fashion,” murmurs Patrick, making a note about exiting stage left, not right.</p><p>Stevie looks up. “Didn’t you?”</p><p>“Well, I thought he might be a model or something--”</p><p>Stevie snorts. “Please never tell him that. His ego’s big enough.”</p><p>“It’s not my fault he’s…” Patrick gestures with his pencil. “Like that.”</p><p>“Egotistical or handsome?”</p><p>“Handsome, he’s not egotistical.”</p><p>“Oh, so you’re an expert now,” she jokes, adding, “you’re right, he’s painfully self-deprecating.”</p><p>He chuckles. Then they pause as David sighs within the costume room.</p><p>“These are the shoes you picked?”</p><p>“I didn’t pick them, Tippy did, and--”</p><p>“Well, the heel is far too high,” says David. </p><p>“I said that too. How could anyone dance in those?”</p><p>“No, that isn’t my point, <em>I</em> could dance in those, are you kidding? It’s too high for the 30’s. You’re looking for a kitten heel.”</p><p>Stevie turns a page and highlights something. “Oh boy.”</p><p>“What the fuck is a kitten heel?” murmurs Patrick. </p><p>“I try not to ask those questions,” says Stevie. </p><p>“But this is okay,” David continues. “No, it’s pleather, God help us…”</p><p>“Real leather doesn’t stretch enough for some of those dances!” sighs Jocelyn.</p><p>“Um, Jocelyn, would you rather have a wardrobe malfunction or a reputation for pleather?”</p><p>“...pleather?”</p><p>“No. <em>No</em>.”</p><p>“David, I am not dancing in real leather!” yells Stevie. “I’ll leave that to you and George Michael!”</p><p>“Um, he’s dead, Stevie, and I will tell everyone I know not to see this show if pleather is involved!”</p><p>“You don’t know anyone, David!”</p><p>“Kiss my ass, Stevie!”</p><p>She taps her pencil on her lips, waiting, and Patrick tries not to laugh.</p><p>“And this bustier?” David goes on. “No one’s tits are that big. No one’s.”</p><p>“It can be laced up in the back!” says Jocelyn.</p><p>“Okay, unless Tippy just cast two watermelons, this is not going to work--”</p><p>Jocelyn sighs. “It’s the only one I could find at the second-hand sex shop.”</p><p>“At the <em>what</em> now?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, they dry clean everything!”</p><p>“Oh my fucking God.”</p><p>“David, is that language really necessary?”</p><p>“Um, yes Jocelyn. Yes it is. Because I just touched a bra that you purchased at a <em>used sex shop</em>. Where even was that?”</p><p>“Long Island?”</p><p>“Really want to see his face right now,” says Patrick.</p><p>“It’s this one,” says Stevie, contorting her face into an expression of disappointment, disgust, and rage.</p><p>Patrick looks down to hide a laugh. “Yep.”</p><p>“What are you two laughing about?” calls David.</p><p>“You!” says Patrick.</p><p>“Well fuck off! Do I have this job yet?”</p><p>“You had the job an hour ago,” says Jocelyn, clearly uncomfortable.</p><p>“And how much do I get paid?”</p><p>She hesitates. “Minimum wage?”</p><p>He sighs. “Which is what? Thirty dollars or something? Is this negotiable?”</p><p>“It’s 12, and no.”</p><p>A pause. David pokes his head out of the costume room to look at Stevie. “I am going to murder you.” Then he disappears and adds to Jocelyn, “This all needs to be reworked, I need an office, and maybe an assistant.”</p><p>“You can have neither of those things, but you do have access to that Keurig!”</p><p>“Does it dispense straight tequila?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Then I am not interested.”</p><p>“In...in the job or the Keurig?”</p><p>“Neither, but I’ll take the job so Stevie doesn’t smother me in my sleep.”</p><p>“He’s a handful,” murmurs Patrick.</p><p>Stevie looks up from making a note. “That’s an understatement.”</p><p>David returns, papers in one hand, a pair of suspenders in the other, and looks at them both suspiciously. “What have you two been talking about?”</p><p>“How sad this musical actually is,” mutters Patrick, frowning as he flips through the last few pages.</p><p>David nods. “The vivacious score fools people into thinking this isn’t about fascism.”</p><p>“Vivacious,” says Patrick.</p><p>“How do you want me to describe it, Patrick? Scintillating? Effervescent?”</p><p>Patrick laughs, catching his eye, then closes his script. “Still interested in pancakes?”</p><p>“I think I said brunch, not pancakes,” says David, adding instantly, “Fuck yes.”</p><p>Jocelyn reappears, sighing. “Could we please tone down the language? I’m sorry, it’s just, I was an elementary school teacher for fifteen years before this and I just can’t handle it.”</p><p>“A teacher.” David turns. “Is the entire production team unqualified?”</p><p>“David,” Patrick says reproachfully. </p><p>He gestures, unapologetic. “I’m asking so I don’t devote my time to something that will get laughed off the stage!”</p><p>“Jocelyn is the only qualified person here,” says Stevie. “And if we get laughed off the stage, it will be because you made the dancers wear leather.”</p><p>He simpers at her. She smiles, unfazed, and puts her script in her bag. </p><p>“You promised me bacon.”</p><p>“Fine. But we’ll be discussing the leather.”</p><p>“We won’t be,” Stevie says, getting up with Patrick.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Started as a math fic, turned into a theatre fic lol! Also I decided to cast Patrick as Cliff because I feel like this Patrick and canon Patrick are at fundamentally different stages in their character development. But don't worry, he has a future with more adventurous roles ;) ...wait for later chapters</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Twenty minutes later, they step inside a small cafe, bathed in warm air and the scent of cinnamon and bacon. Despite being in the middle of the city, this place is homey, almost reminiscent of the roadside diner in Elmdale. It’s packed, but a waitress directs them up some squeaky stairs to a loft, which is snug with several tables and a view of the alley below. They slide into a booth, Stevie and David on one side, and Patrick’s phone buzzes once again.</p><p>He thanks the waitress for menus, then takes his phone out and apologizes.</p><p>“Is this still the ex?” asks Stevie.</p><p>David glances up from the menu, looking at Patrick with soft, cautious eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:17: Never mind. I’m sure you don’t want to talk.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:20: You never do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:21: I’m just worried about you</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:23: Like, you left so suddenly, are you sick or something and you don’t know how to tell anyone?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:27: Did you get in some kind of trouble?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:35: Nvm I’m being stupid. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:46: Really brave of you to answer literally none of my texts </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rachel, 8:57: I didn't mean that. I just miss you. A lot.</em>
</p><p>Patrick puts his phone away. “Are the mimosas here any good?”</p><p>David smiles slightly. “Very good.”</p><p>Stevie shifts out of the booth to use the bathroom and David orders three mimosas, then looks gently at Patrick, waiting for him to speak.</p><p>“I haven’t texted her in months.”</p><p>“She’s an ex, you don’t have to text her,” says David.</p><p>“She was almost my wife. She still gets lunch with my mom every Saturday.”</p><p>“Mm.” David twitches his fingers at Patrick. “Can I see?”</p><p>“My texts? No.” He pauses. “Not unsupervised.” </p><p>David smirks and nods, then gets up to sit beside him. He’s suddenly far too close. Patrick can see each dot of his stubble, count each eyelash. He’d be happy to lay beside David and count every single one. </p><p>“Do I still smell woodsy?” asks David. </p><p>“You do,” Patrick confirms, drifting in his eyes.</p><p>“Mhm.” He extends his hand. “I am an expert at deciphering texts.”</p><p>Patrick unlocks his phone. “I don’t think these need deciphering. But knock yourself out.”</p><p>David reads for a moment. “She’s still in love with you.”</p><p>“I know. I’m worried she’ll fly here.”</p><p>“Okay, we do not want that.”</p><p>“No,” agrees Patrick, staring at the texts. “How do you -- how do you tell someone who’s still in love with you that it’s over?”</p><p>“Oh, no one’s ever been in love with me, so I have no idea.”</p><p>“Find that hard to believe, David.”</p><p>“Do you? Women see me as a fun friends-with-benefits option, men just want to fuck me, there’s not a <em>lot</em> of room there for anyone to fall in love.”</p><p>“You can want to sleep with someone and be in love with them," says Patrick.</p><p>“Mhm, yes, but that scenario makes me break out in hives.”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>David hums. “Is there someone else she could date? Does she have some fatal flaw that only you would put up with?”</p><p>“No. No, she’s pretty and smart and funny.” He hesitates, then opens his gallery and flicks his thumb on the screen so it scrolls to the very end. He opens a picture of Rachel and himself, in between his mom and dad, two Christmases ago. “Here.”</p><p>David leans closer. Patrick holds his breath and watches David’s expression. It’s a strange blend of impressed, confused, and...jealous?</p><p>“She’s very pretty. And your parents are sweet.”</p><p>He smiles. “Yeah. Thanks, they are.”</p><p>“You have your mom’s eyes.”</p><p>“No, she has blue eyes--”</p><p>“No, the, um...you both have very kind eyes.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Patrick.</p><p>David is even closer. Dangerously close. One strand of hair has fallen from its perfect peak, kissing his forehead. </p><p>“Why do you keep this?” David asks gently, gesturing with his phone.</p><p>Patrick breathes in. “David, I -- I don’t want to be with her. It isn’t that. But my parents loved her. My mom -- she couldn’t have any more kids after me -- and she wants grandkids but -- it’s more than that. It wasn’t always bad. It was actually…” He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen my parents happier than when I told them I proposed.”</p><p>“Were you happy?” David asks.</p><p>“No,” says Patrick softly.</p><p>“Do you have other pictures of your parents?” he checks.</p><p>Patrick nods, slightly shaky. David nods, then hands him his phone. He clicks the lock without deleting the photo and meets David’s eyes.</p><p>"She's not a bad person," he says.</p><p>"You aren't a bad person for deleting that."</p><p>"I don't -- I don't want to forget her. I just don't want to be with her."</p><p>David frowns, puzzled and searching. "Really?"</p><p>"Really," says Patrick. “I’ll delete it after I tell her the truth.”</p><p>David almost smiles. “Okay.” The waitress appears with their drinks and David slides one to Patrick, thanks her, and continues after a sip, “What are your parents’ names?”</p><p>Patrick relaxes, relieved he changed course, and replies, “Marcy and Clint.”</p><p>“What do they do?”</p><p>“My mom was a teacher and my dad’s a carpenter.”</p><p>“What did she teach?”</p><p>“Kindergarten.”</p><p>David makes a horrified face. “Oh God.” He stirs his mimosa. “And your dad…?”</p><p>“Built houses.”</p><p>“Yet you aren’t handy.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles and tries his mimosa. “No -- this is delicious -- no, I never went to work with him.”</p><p>David smirks, satisfied, “It has a secret ingredient. The mimosa. Tequila and pineapple.”</p><p>“Pineapples used to be really expensive,” says Patrick, not sure why he said this; he’s sharing a booth with a gorgeous guy, a guy who just bought him a drink and asked about his parents in the most genuine, gentle way, and he’s talking about pineapples.</p><p>“Were they?” asks David, breathy. “Do you have more fruit facts?”</p><p>“Bananas are a berry.”</p><p>“No they aren’t.”</p><p>“They are--”</p><p>David rolls his eyes and takes his phone out to verify this. He frowns after a moment. “What the fuck.”</p><p>“Told you.”</p><p>“Why do you know that? And why did you know pineapples used to be expensive?”</p><p>“There’s a whole pineapple sequence in Cabaret. Which you should know, as the costume designer.”</p><p>“I've only read the first twenty pages and the last five,” admits David. </p><p>“So you got the hypersexuality and the tragedy.”</p><p>“Yes. What’s in the middle?”</p><p>“Sailors.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, accepting this. “So did you always live there? Elmdale?”</p><p>“Yeah, and my parents, and my grandparents,” he replies. “Everyone back to 1840.”</p><p>“My God. My grandparents moved around as much as my parents. From Poland to here to Montreal to Vancouver to San Francisco and they died in Hamburg. On my dad’s side.” </p><p>“And your mom’s?”</p><p>“Oh they don’t count, they’re the worst.” He taps the menu. “So, the scones are very good here, and so are the omelets.”</p><p>“Do they have eggs benedict?”</p><p>“Mm, yes, man after my own heart.” He pauses, considering Patrick with a slight smirk. “They make a spicy hollandaise.”</p><p>“I’m game,” says Patrick, adding, “How do you actually pronounce that?”</p><p>David laughs. “Oo-lon-dayz.”</p><p>“I’ll keep teaching you math if you teach me French,” says Patrick.</p><p>“Oh, so it’s conditional now,” says David.</p><p>He nods. “That’s right.”</p><p>Then they notice Stevie. Her expression suggests she’s been standing by the booth for a solid minute.</p><p>“So,” she says, voice a bit high. “I just remembered. I have a meeting.” She pulls her purse higher on her shoulder. “So I’ll see you later.” </p><p>David raises his brows a touch.</p><p>Patrick says goodbye to her, then shifts into the booth on the other side of the table. She walks behind him as she leaves and he doesn’t see it, but she points at him and gives David a shaky grin and a thumbs-up. He sees David smile and nod, flushed, and he wonders why. But he returns to their discussion of eggs benedict, too shy to ask.</p><p>They order more food than they should. They split Stevie’s forgotten mimosa. It starts to snow and David asks if he can stay and study in the cafe for a few hours.</p><p>Patrick agrees. He’d agree if it meant missing New Year's fireworks. A solar eclipse. He’d agree if it meant missing a miracle. </p><p>They spend the next few hours discussing theatre, tacos, the best bar for a cold night. The time passes as if it belongs to another world. </p><p>They talk more than they study, but in the quiet in-betweens, Patrick studies David. His dark eyes and his soft skin; his knuckles and his tapping foot. His warmth. His fucking glorious warmth. His eyes skip like a river from book to book to phone to backpack to notes, hungry for details; he finds that David is organized, like him, neat, like him. He also finds background chaos. Headphones that aren’t charged. A scribbled address.</p><p>Light snow becomes a blizzard but they don’t notice. They sip coffee and tea, turn pages, write a few aimless words. Patrick’s fingers form chords on his book like it’s a guitar and David smiles at this. </p><p>The morning fades to evening and evening fades to black, and they’re almost alone in the cafe, almost touching, when David jumps.</p><p>“Did you fall asleep?” jokes Patrick, eyes still on his book.</p><p>“Almost,” says David, knee drifting against his under the table. He blinks. “Why is it dark?”</p><p>“It’s five.”</p><p>David opens his mouth slightly. “It’s what?”</p><p>“Five. We’ve been here a while.”</p><p>“Stevie probably thinks I died again.”</p><p>“When did she think you died before?”</p><p>“Oh, night before last, I wandered Chelsea for three hours.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>David looks into his eyes. “I had a lot to think about.” He drops his gaze, smirking, and takes out his phone. He shows the display to Patrick after a moment. “She’s so polite.”</p><p>
  <em>Stevie Budd, 4:19: are you dead or did you go to his place?</em>
</p><p>“Oh, you don’t want to come to my place.”</p><p>“No, not with the sink.”</p><p>They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, smiling, drifting, until David glances away and grins. He rests his chin on his knuckles, staring out the window, then returns his eyes to Patrick and softens.</p><p>“Okay. I -- I should probably go. But I’ll see you tomorrow?”</p><p>Patrick nods. </p><p>“Because I have a question.”</p><p>“We studied all day and you didn’t ask me?”</p><p>“I wasn’t studying,” says David, turning his notebook and flipping through several pages of Cabaret sketches. The designs are beautiful. Immaculate. Of course they are.</p><p><em> "</em>David, those are… <em> " </em></p><p>"I did them too quickly--"</p><p>"No," Patrick says, catching the notebook before David puts it away. "No, those are incredible."</p><p>"Okay, they're not, but thank you--"</p><p>"I'm serious," says Patrick. </p><p>David turns the notebook, smiles slightly, and mumbles, "Okay, they aren't the worst I've ever done." He pauses. "Walk with me?"</p><p>“I think I’ll just finish up here."</p><p>David glances at him as he gets up, surprised. “Really?”</p><p>Patrick hesitates, then smiles and meets his eyes. “Yeah. I’m going to call Rachel."</p><p><em>"Oh.</em> Um." David nods, lips pressed together to disguise how proud he is. "See you at rehearsal?"</p><p>"See you at rehearsal, David."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did a time jump so David and Patrick can be a bit more familiar with each other and so Stevie and Patrick are friends. And because I can't handle the slow-burn anymore ;)</p><p>(Slow burn lmao they've known each other less than a month but hey this is fic)</p><p>6 more chapters and Part 1 will be complete! Part 2 will come sometime early in 2021!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Two Weeks Later</strong>
</p><p>David’s backstage, curled up in an old recliner, drinking coffee and making a list of furniture he hasn’t found yet. His costume director duties expanded day by day as Clifton and Tippy drove most of the production team away. Now, he’s responsible for the set too, and the playbills, <em>and</em> the advertising. </p><p>Stevie thought he would quit, but he doesn’t mind spending his time here. </p><p>Patrick sticks his head backstage, slightly sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt half-unbuttoned. “Have you seen my typewriter?”</p><p>After all, it isn’t <em>all</em> bad.</p><p>“It’s where it always is,” David says. “On the prop table.”</p><p>“No, it’s not there.”</p><p>David sets his coffee aside and gestures. “Okay, if I get up and it is there, you’re buying me lunch.”</p><p>“Deal,” says Patrick.</p><p>David gets up and joins him behind the curtain, crossing the stage to the prop table; he searches through various bags, cigarette holders, bottles of gin, cut crystal fruit bowls, and eventually frowns. </p><p>“How did you lose a typewriter?”</p><p>“I didn’t lose it, David.”</p><p>David eyes him, amused, and leans on the prompter’s podium. He’s grown accustomed to these dizzy pauses. These laughing glances. His days feel cold and incomplete without them, without seeing Patrick at least once; on those rare days, they fill the space with texts, everything from <em>my hat shrunk in the wash</em> to <em>what do you think of Orson Welles</em>?</p><p>Stevie has expressed her confusion to David several times. <em>How are you married and you haven’t even kissed yet? What’s wrong with you?</em> But David’s happy with what they have. Happy to give Patrick space as he works through his new life. </p><p>“Okay,” he says, “clearly someone lost it, and it <em>is</em> your prop.”</p><p>“I thought you might have taken it. You were talking about polishing it.”</p><p>“Yes. It’s not shiny enough. But I didn’t take it--”</p><p>They’re interrupted by Clifton. He’s carrying the typewriter, which looks a little worse for wear. “So sorry! Tippy and I were just testing this for durability!”</p><p>David gestures in annoyance. If he ever does quit, it will be because of this idiot. “Why were you doing that?”</p><p>“Probably because they want me to throw that at Sally in 2-6,” says Patrick. </p><p>David holds his hands up. “Okay, no one is throwing a typewriter. Cliff already slaps her. That's irredeemable enough. And he sold his typewriter in 2-4. How are you directing this and you don’t know that?”</p><p>“No, but this is brilliant!” argues Clifton. “It’s an expression of his disconnected intellectualism!”</p><p>David covers his face. “Okay. He isn't an intellectual. He's a writer who only sees the bigger picture because it is literally shoved in his face."</p><p>"My my. You really are your mother’s son, do you realize that?”</p><p>David folds his arms. “Um, thank you, and yes. Yes, I do.”</p><p>Stevie pokes her head behind the curtain and raises her brows. “What’s the hold-up here?” Her eyes find the typewriter. “So I see we’re still debating that.”</p><p>“No, we’re not,” says David. He points at Clifton. “Set that down. Next time you need a prop, ask me, and when I say no, nod politely and stick to directing.”</p><p>Stevie and Patrick share a knowing look. Clifton seethes but sets the typewriter on the table, then leaves with a waspish flick of his suit coat. David shakes his head.</p><p>“Is it me or am I the <em>only</em> thing holding this production together?”</p><p>“You and me, buddy!” says Jocelyn, appearing with a stack of flyers. “Did you resolve the typewriter issue?”</p><p>David tips his head back in annoyance. “My God. Can we mutiny?”</p><p>“Honestly,” says Joceyln, “I thought Clifton’s drinking would take care of him for us by now.”</p><p>“Oh, no. No no. He’s indestructible." David sighs, then looks at Stevie and Patrick, “are you good? Do you need lunch?”</p><p>“So attentive!” gasps Stevie.</p><p>“Wow, so supportive, thanks David.”</p><p>David glowers at them. He didn’t think Stevie and Patrick would develop a sibling-level bond in a matter of weeks. He didn’t think they’d become a team, a single-minded, sarcastic force of nature. </p><p>“I was offering that sincerely,” he replies, “but now I retract that offer.”</p><p>“If you really wanted to help,” says Patrick, “you’d help us with the choreo.”</p><p>Jocelyn catches David’s eye, nods hard, and mouths <em>disaster.</em></p><p>David presses his lips together, glancing at Patrick.</p><p>“Okay,” he says, taking Patrick’s shoulders to steer him downstage. “But this doesn’t make me the choreographer.” </p><p>“Of course not.”</p><p>“Because my name is already on that Playbill four times.”</p><p>Patrick glances over his shoulder at him. “Four?”</p><p>“Mhm,” says David, giving him a slight squeeze, “costume designer, set designer, props master, art director.”</p><p>“Who decided on art director?” asks Patrick, turning to sit on a trunk by Stevie.</p><p>“I did,” says David, unashamed. “So I’m assuming this is during <em>Perfectly Marvelous</em>?”</p><p>“Yes,” says Stevie, then pauses to sneeze -- she has the flu but refuses to admit it. “So. I have to run, jump on the trunk, sing, fall into Patrick’s arms, he holds me for a minute, and then he lifts me back on the trunk which by then has been made into a bed by the other dancers.”</p><p>“So what’s the problem?” asks David. <br/> <br/>She sneezes again, and then she and Patrick glance at each other.</p><p>“Should we show him?” she asks.</p><p>Patrick nods, gesturing at Jocelyn to play the score, and David steps back to watch with a curious, cautious smirk. </p><p>Stevie skips gracefully to the trunk, twirls onto it, and sings a few bars while Patrick watches her as Cliff, torn between panic and amusement.</p><p>“Sally - I just can’t afford...do you have any money?” he asks. </p><p>She thrusts her fist in the air as if holding cash. “Six marks!”</p><p>He’s horrified. “Oh God.”</p><p>She throws her gaze at him, desperate. “Please, Cliff! Please, just for a day or two?” Then she looks at David. “So now he sings, and tells Sally she can stay, and then...” She raises her brows to indicate this is the sticky spot. “Oh, Cliff!”</p><p>She falls off the trunk, overwhelmed, and Patrick catches her. Kind of. They stumble, one of her legs drags on the stage, and they both wince.</p><p>David grimaces. “Okay, this scene is supposed to be sexy, not…”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks David, we know,” says Patrick, setting Stevie down.</p><p>“And one of you is going to get hurt.”</p><p>“Oh, we know,” Stevie says seriously, sneezing into her arm. </p><p>“Okay, what if instead of falling, you help her down? And then you can lift her, and you set her on the bed when she says…”</p><p>“We’ll think of something,” Patrick says, reminding him of the line.</p><p>“See, that’s hot. Don’t ruin it with…” He flaps his hand at them. “Whatever that was.”</p><p>Stevie rolls her eyes. “David, <em>we</em> didn’t pick this choreo…” She sneezes. “Tippy did…”</p><p>They argue for the next two hours, trying different choreography, until Stevie admits she’s too sick to continue. This was after she sneezed on Patrick, coughed until she cried, and stumbled, dizzy from too much Nyquil.</p><p>David holds her up, rubbing her arm, while Patrick packs her things.</p><p>“I’m going to make sure she gets home,” says David, wrinkling his nose. “And maybe take her to the hospital.”</p><p>“No, I’m fine,” slurs Stevie, drifting on him.</p><p>“You’re so not,” he says, adding to Patrick, “I hope you have a good immune system.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Brewers never get sick.”</p><p>“Well, now you’re going to,” says David.</p><p>“Didn’t know you were so superstitious,” Patrick jokes.</p><p>David rolls his eyes, glancing at Stevie to check on her. She groans, leaning into him, and mumbles something about trying the number one more time.</p><p>“Um, no, you’re going to bed,” he says, disturbed.</p><p>She coughs. “You’re such a mom.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says, gesturing at Patrick to hurry up. </p><p>“Going as fast as I can, David,” he replies, folding Stevie’s sweatshirt into her bag. “Hang in there, Stevie.”</p><p>“Why is he so nice?” she mumbles. “He’s like, so <em>nice</em>, David.”</p><p>David balks. “Why are you acting boozy?”</p><p>“Cold meds always do this to me.” She coughs. “And he’s so talented, David, he’s like, he’s perfect for you.”</p><p>Patrick glances over. “I like her on Nyquil.”</p><p>“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” says David, gesturing at Stevie like she’s a drunk on the B line. </p><p>Patrick joins them with Stevie’s bag and David slings it over his shoulder. </p><p>He smiles. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Yeah, text me she’s alright, okay?”</p><p>David nods, chest suddenly heavy, and his lips twitch. “Why <em>are</em> you so nice? And don’t say you’re Canadian. Look how I turned out.”</p><p>“Don’t know, David. And you turned out fine. You’re walking your sick friend home during a blizzard.”</p><p>“It’s not snowing again. Say it’s not snowing again.”</p><p>“It was last time I checked, yeah--”</p><p>David throws his head back. “Oh my God. Okay. Okay. I can do this.”</p><p>“It’s one block David, come on!” groans Stevie.</p><p>He nods, sending a last glance at Patrick, and smiles faintly as they exit the theater.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick lingers at the theater after rehearsal, working through the footwork for the finale, thinking of David. He’s always, only thinking of David.</p>
<p>At first these thoughts scared him. Now he likes to be consumed by them. He welcomes midnight reveries and midday heart attacks; he doesn’t mind falling down a staircase of competing certainties. </p>
<p>I love him.</p>
<p>
  <em>You can’t love him. </em>
</p>
<p>But I do. </p>
<p>
  <em>You’ve known him a month. </em>
</p>
<p>Yeah, and I love him.</p>
<p>
  <em>You’re gonna get hurt.</em>
</p>
<p>Don’t think so!</p>
<p>He glances down, finding his mark on the stage, and pauses to breathe. He thinks David should have warned him that theatre is an endurance sport. </p>
<p>He’s been too busy between rehearsal, school, work, baseball practice, and grant applications to do more than steal an afternoon in the theater, five minutes in the hall outside the math lab. But he lives for these moments and, beyond the melodrama and madness of David’s life, he’s sure David does too.</p>
<p>He’s half-glad that Stevie is sick. Rehearsing without her is pointless, so he’ll have tomorrow off. Maybe he and David can...</p>
<p>Jocelyn passes him on the stage, dressed to leave.</p>
<p>“Still here?” </p>
<p>He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m just -- not a dancer.”</p>
<p>“Well. That’s why we didn’t cast you as one of the Kit Kat Boys.”</p>
<p>He nods, pulling his shirt from his chest; it’s actually sticking from sweat. “Very wise.”</p>
<p>Jocelyn glances around. “Where’s David?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he went home, Stevie’s sick.”</p>
<p>“Soon we’ll all be,” Jocelyn says cheerfully. She settles her lunchbox more securely in the crook of her arm and walks toward the door, but stops. “Oh! When you see David tonight, could you tell him to call me about the table for 1-3?”</p>
<p>“Oh, we -- we don’t live together.”</p>
<p>“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, you just seem like you’ve been together forever! I’ll text him!” She waves. “Toodles!”</p>
<p>Patrick waves, then looks down, fighting a smile, and nods. </p>
<p>He’s too tired to take another stab at the choreo, so he wanders off stage for his water bottle and his jacket. He heads out, locking up behind him, and finds the snow has turned into a blizzard. It’s not Ontario, but this winter has to be one of the worst on record. David is probably seething, daring the storm to continue, plotting his revenge. He smirks at the image, adjusting his stocking cap, and steps into the snow.</p>
<p>Sometimes he misses the dangerous cold. The socked-in days, dependent on the wayward sun. Sometimes he thinks of Rachel, but his stomach doesn’t turn the way it used to. </p>
<p>He climbs up his stairs, looking forward to an early night. Maybe he’ll call David and they’ll whisper over the phone while he tends to Stevie. Maybe he’ll suggest lunch tomorrow, and he’ll pick a place that can’t be mistaken for anything but a date. A serious date. An open invitation to his life, his future.</p>
<p>Then he opens the door to his apartment and he’s faced with chaos. Ray is holding a hammer and several towels, staring at the radiator, and Patrick looks down to find water lapping at his feet.</p>
<p>Ray sighs. “Do you know how to fix this?”</p>
<p>“No,” he says dully. “No, definitely not.”</p>
<p>Ray nods and beams. “Understandable! Nor do I! The good news is that the repairman will be here before midnight -- well, <em>definitely</em> before 6 a.m.!”</p>
<p>Patrick nods too, then steps over the water, nabs his guitar from beside the couch, and turns. “Gonna head back to the theater.”</p>
<p>“Very good!”</p>
<p>“You okay?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’ll be fine!” says Ray, waving him off, surveying the damage. “Glad we have insurance!”</p>
<p>Patrick frowns slightly. He hasn’t figured out Ray’s oppressive optimism yet.</p>
<p>“Me too,” he manages, almost amused, sliding his guitar over his shoulder. </p>
<p>He stays a moment, ensuring it’s alright to leave his roommate alone with a busted radiator, then steps out, back into the snow, back to the theater. </p>
<p>He would go to David’s place, but Stevie is sick. That’s why he won’t go. Not because he’d do something stupid. Not because he’d fall into David’s bed the second Stevie fell asleep. Not because he’d spill every secret he’s ever kept while David kisses him. Nope, none of those reasons. Stevie is sick. He’ll respect that. Stay by himself in the theater, wait out the radiator and the storm. Wait out his almost-undeniable urges.</p>
<p>He unlocks the backdoor to the theater and slips inside, thankful for the warmth. He drifts to his dressing room, then to costume, where the acoustics are better. </p>
<p>He sits on an overturned briefcase, then spots a forgotten laptop. He recognizes it as Stevie’s, so he puts it in his bag, then works through a few chords. He smiles and shifts from an F to a Gm, from Am to C. He loops through the key, Frankie Valli to Tina Turner. He’s too tired to put his voice through what the songs require. Too tired to do much more than float with the notes, but soon he’s singing, singing to David.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter was my fave to write so far. I wrote it before most of the others because I had several specific images in mind that I needed to explore. My notes for this chapter were just "sushi laptop" lmao I'm such an organized writer. But I hope y'all like this one :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“David I need it,” she slurs. “I need it and the theater’s locked tomorrow.”</p><p>David looks at her in disbelief and gestures with his pen. “I am not getting your laptop in this storm.”</p><p>She groans, turning to lie with her back to him.</p><p>“There is no way it's still there.”</p><p>“Yes it is, go find it,” she mumbles, pulling a blanket over her head. </p><p>David breathes out, beyond annoyed; he wanted to stay in, make spiked hot chocolate, and watch something trashy. </p><p>“Okay,” he says softly. “But if your laptop is not there, I am going to be irate.”</p><p>“Oh no,” she mumbles. “Irate.”</p><p>He purses his lips and glances at her, exasperated. But then he gets to his feet and goes into his room to change; he picks a soft white sweater, dark joggers, and some Duckfeet boots. These look like something Patrick would wear and David absolutely did not buy them for that reason. He grabs some earmuffs, his phone, a last sip of wine, then stands by the couch as Stevie sneezes.</p><p>“Ew. Do not get me sick.”</p><p>She reaches blindly for a tissue and he hands her one. “You know I already have.”</p><p>“Well, I’m in cheerful denial of that, so--”</p><p>“David. Go. <em>Go</em>. I need my laptop.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says, backing up slightly, like she’s a stinky toad in a terrarium. “Do you need meds too?”</p><p>She nods weakly and he grimaces, then takes his bag from the chair by the door. </p><p>“Try not to die while I’m gone.”</p><p>She groans in response. His gaze lingers and he briefly wonders if he should stay. But he slips into the hall and into the night, walking fast down 10th. </p><p>***</p><p>He reaches the theater as it starts to snow. He hurries inside, brushing the flakes off his jacket. The theatre is empty, mostly dark; someone’s playing guitar in the distance. </p><p>He walks through the auditorium to the stage, locates the stairs to the pit, and trots into it; he begins to search for Stevie’s laptop, ducking to check under the chairs, finding nothing but a stray earring, a reed, half a joint. He moves from the pit to the trap room, toward the dressing rooms, but pauses. </p><p>The guitar is louder here, echoing, slow chords that build toward an unmistakable melody<em>.</em> David lingers, looking toward the rafters, and listens as someone starts to sing.</p><p>“Give me a lifetime of promises and a world of dreams<br/>Speak the language of love like you know what it means<br/>Mm, and it can't be wrong, take my heart and make it strong, babe...”</p><p>This guy’s got a voice like caramel, with the tiniest, perfect rasp. David glances in the direction of the music.</p><p>“You're simply the best, better than all the rest --” A chuckle, a sigh. The chords change and David holds still. He almost knows that laugh. “Better than anyone...” New chords, a little lower. “Anyone I ever met..."</p><p>He’s talking himself through the song. David gets the sense he’s playing by ear, from memory; that this song came to him from the past, demanding to be played. </p><p>He walks into the hall, still searching for Stevie’s laptop, and his chest stitches as the song continues; this guy is pouring his soul out in an empty theatre, thinking he’s alone. </p><p>“I'm stuck on your heart. I hang on every word you say..." The man’s voice changes and David nearly stops; the warmth of the song gives way to something dusky, delicate. “Tear us apart, baby, I would rather be dead..."</p><p>David swallows. Laptop. He has to find the laptop. He can’t swirl down the drain of someone else’s life tonight. </p><p>He walks past the dressing rooms and into wardrobe; he knows Stevie sits here when she’s overwhelmed, hides in the racks like a child in Sears. He starts parting coats, praying for the glint of a silver Macbook, when he realizes the guitar wasn’t coming from a dressing room.</p><p>It was coming from here.</p><p>He freezes, looks to his right, and sees Patrick. He's sitting on a briefcase, guitar in his arms.</p><p>When he speaks, his voice is staggered, almost shaken. “David?”</p><p>“<em>Hi</em>, um -- Stevie, she left her laptop here so I came to get it...”</p><p>“Oh, I have it, hang on…”</p><p>Of course he took her laptop for safekeeping. Of course he’s alone in wardrobe, playing an old song, waiting for David like a place by the fire. </p><p>He hands David the laptop. “I found it by the stage and figured I’d drop it off on my way home.”</p><p>“So I came here for nothing?” </p><p>“That’s right, David.”</p><p>“Well, thank you for not stealing it.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “I did steal all her info off of it, so if you see a credit card charge for a $2400 leather sectional--”</p><p>“Only $2400? Where did you find that?”</p><p>“IKEA.”</p><p>“Oh, ew.”</p><p>“IKEA’s actually pretty nice, David.”</p><p>“Um, it’s not, you have to build the furniture yourself.”</p><p>“Is that a problem?”</p><p>“Yes. If you are actually in the market for a sectional, Stevie and I were going to go to a flea market in Chelsea tomorrow. But given how Stevie looks tonight, I don’t think she’s going to make it. And I cannot go alone, or I will spend my entire paycheck and buy something that doesn’t fit in my apartment.”</p><p>“So you need a chaperone.”</p><p>“Yes. And I need to find that table for Act 1.”</p><p>Patrick starts to smile. “Okay. I’ll text you.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, very soft. He turns, about to leave, but stops. “Stevie said you've been wondering why you got cast.”</p><p>Patrick meets his eyes, cautious.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be,” David continues. </p><p>He knows he should stop before he says something dangerous and irrevocable, but this man shut that instinct off the moment they met. He’s helpless. The voice in his head that was once quick to stomp on sincerity is silent. It’s been replaced by a new voice. A precarious, pressing voice that tells him to spill everything.</p><p>“You’re very good. And that is one of my favorite songs.”</p><p>“Thank -- thank you -- really?”</p><p>"Yes. And whoever you're singing about is very lucky.”</p><p>Patrick glances down, stunned, and swallows. </p><p>“I --” Patrick clears his throat. He shifts his guitar aside. “Have you had dinner yet?”</p><p>“Yes. But I will eat again if you’re offering.”</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Just give me a minute…”</p><p>David nods, turning to wander around wardrobe while he waits. He’s not sure what just happened, but he’s not complaining. Stevie can wait, her flu be damned. He drags his fingers over the pre-war suits, little leather dresses, white suspenders; normally, he’d be absorbed by costume concerns, but tonight he can only think of one thing. </p><p><em>That song was for you. About you. He’s in love with you. He’s so in love with you that he’s singing about you. He’s so in love with you that he can barely speak and you’re going to take this absolute gift of a man and do everything wrong, because you’re you--</em><br/> <br/>“David?”</p><p>“Oh, I was…” He’s got a black heel in his hand. “Thinking about what I want to eat.”</p><p>“Ah.” Patrick’s got his coat on now, his guitar slung over his shoulder in a case. “You looked like you were maybe thinking about the human condition and how we’re just hurtling through endless space on a rock.”</p><p>David pops his brows. “Oh, that’s because I was, but I was also thinking...sushi?”</p><p>“I’ve never tried it.”</p><p>“Okay, <em>where</em> in Canada are you from?”</p><p>“Elmdale.”</p><p>“Right. Do they not have sushi in Elmdale?”</p><p>“You would not want to eat the sushi they <em>do</em> have in Elmdale.”</p><p>David grimaces. “Mhm. Not coastal.”</p><p>“Rachel tried it once and I had to take her to the hospital.”</p><p>“Okay. I will give you a better sushi experience. I promise you will not end up in the hospital. Not from the sushi, anyway.” He pauses. “That -- that was not a really dirty pickup line, in case you were wondering. I was just. I should stop talking.”</p><p>“Have you put someone in the hospital?”</p><p>“Um, yes, but that was accidental.”</p><p>“I assumed that, David.”</p><p>“He hit his head on my coffee table?”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>“Mhm. I pushed him. But he asked me to push him.”</p><p>“Oh. Is that a thing?”</p><p>“You are not getting more details about this while I’m sober.”</p><p>“Okay David,” says Patrick. He reaches into his pockets for his gloves and puts them on, then nods at the door. “Should we drop off her laptop?”</p><p>“She can wait--”</p><p>“No, David, she’s sick.”</p><p>David presses his lips together. “Okay, do you mind stopping at CVS for meds then?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“Great. Um. So we should. We should go.”</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yes. <em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>“Because your voice is doing that thing.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Yes, it is.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, breathy. </p><p>“She looked pretty bad earlier,” Patrick says as they walk into the trap room and up the stairs to the stage. “Is she doing any better?”</p><p>“Uh, no. But she’s excited because all the coughing is making her voice very sexy."</p><p>Patrick chuckles as they walk through the auditorium. He opens the door for David and they continue into the snow, glancing at each other. David wants to take his hand, and if he was one drink in, he would. But the moment passes and they hurry across the street to the nearest CVS. </p><p>The door dings as they push through it. David walks directly to the cold medicine aisle, surveying the choices, and Patrick stands beside him.</p><p>“I’ll pick cough drops, you pick medicine," says David, "and we’ll be out of here in two seconds.”</p><p>Patrick nods and David steps aside to examine some cough drops. The last time he looked for cough drops, there were two flavors -- horrible honey-lemon and mint. Now, there’s Berry Blast, bubblegum, passionfruit, and more. He exhales in annoyance.</p><p>“What do you usually get?”</p><p>But Patrick’s gone to another aisle. David sighs and grabs a package of cherry Ludens from the shelf, then wanders through the store until he finds Patrick in the soup aisle. Patrick holds up a can of chicken noodle.</p><p>“Does she like this or chicken and rice?”</p><p>“Both,” says David, adding, “Should we get her that…the lotion thing?”</p><p>“Vapo-rub?” Patrick reaches into his basket to show David he already picked it up, along with tissues, Emergen-C., and some saltine crackers. </p><p>“So you’ve done this before.”</p><p>“My mom had cancer when I was a kid,” Patrick says. “She’d get sick a lot because of her immune system. So my dad and I used to do this.” He takes another can off the shelf and glances at David, subdued but smiling. “She’d like you.”</p><p>David holds still, caught off-guard. “Okay, um. Is she…?”</p><p>“She’s okay now,” says Patrick.</p><p>David nods. Then he frowns. Patrick said all of this too casually. He doesn’t think having a mom with cancer is something anyone gets over, even if they’re as strong and hopeful as Patrick is.</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, I am now, it was hard when I was a kid but…”</p><p>“How old were you?”</p><p>“It was an ongoing thing so...she was diagnosed when I was 8, had her last relapse when I was 18. I think I mentioned to you she couldn’t have any more kids after me? This is why. I didn’t know how to bring it up.”</p><p>David nods and says, voice a little breathy, “Well, I think bringing it up in the CVS soup aisle is as good a way as any.”</p><p>Patrick slowly smiles. Then he laughs, relieved they’re joking again, and grabs David’s arm to pull him to a display of holiday teas.</p><p>They keep browsing CVS, talking very little, holding up the occasional product to make each other laugh. David steals a million tiny glances, oversaturated and smiling. Every relationship he’s ever had has required him to find perfect timing, a perfect venue.</p><p>How stupid. He’d give every midnight concert, every diamond chandelier, for the last twenty minutes.</p><p>***</p><p>They head to his apartment after checking out. He unlocks the door and steps inside.</p><p>“Still alive?”</p><p>“Season 5 is so weird,” Stevie answers. </p><p>“Is my mom still in the bubble or…?”</p><p>“Yes.” She coughs. “Did you find it?”</p><p>He walks to the couch and gives her the laptop, glancing at the paused screen. His mom is mid-breakdown as she floats in a South American cave.</p><p>"Yes, actually Patrick did, but...”</p><p>“Hanging in there?” Patrick calls.</p><p>Stevie raises her eyebrows, gazing at the door.</p><p>David sighs. “Don’t--”</p><p>“So Patrick is here,” she says. “At midnight.”</p><p>“He was still rehearsing, so--”</p><p>“Oh, rehearsing. Now I know what took you so long.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David. “You are going to drink some Theanine or Thera-whatever, and we are going to go get sushi--”</p><p>“At midnight.”</p><p>David nods. “Yes.”</p><p>She snuggles deeper in her blanket. “Okay. See you in three days.”</p><p>“Stevie--”</p><p>“You have to fuck eventually.”</p><p>He frowns. “Do you think sushi is code or…?”</p><p>“I can hear everything you’re saying,” Patrick informs them. “Just FYI.”</p><p>David pops his brows at Stevie. “Okay, you’re on thin ice--”</p><p>“David, I have blue balls and I’m not even in this relationship.”</p><p>He covers his face, then drops the bag from CVS by the couch and looks at her sternly. “We tried to do something nice for you and this is how you repay us?”</p><p>She leans to reach into the bag, then stares at him, almost disturbed. “You got me soup? What happened to you?”</p><p>“Patrick did.”</p><p>She grins. “Sure did.”</p><p>“No, I mean he got you the soup.”</p><p>“Can still hear all of this,” says Patrick.</p><p>David shakes his head and pulls Stevie’s blanket higher on her body. “You’re in a very delicate and vulnerable state so please don’t make me want to kill you more than I already do.”</p><p>She nods and winks with all the sincerity of a Times Square Elmo. He purses his lips, asks if she’s warm enough, then returns to the hall. </p><p>“So sorry."</p><p>“Sounds like she appreciated the soup.”</p><p>“Actually she was very concerned by it.”</p><p>“It does have a lot of sodium.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, turning. He takes Patrick’s head in his hands and kisses him above his left brow. “Be quiet.” Then he takes Patrick’s hand, almost bossy, and slides his thumb over his knuckles. “Do you still want sushi?”</p><p>Patrick stares at him. “Yes.”</p><p>He nods. “Great.”</p><p>***</p><p>Twenty minutes later, they emerge beside an alley with lights strung over the cobbles. David looks up, eyes on a neon sign, and sends a flirty smile at Patrick. Then they duck inside, up some stairs, and into a loft with live music and saké bottles hanging as lanterns. </p><p>David looks at him over a menu, eyes bright. Patrick looks up too, sensing his gaze, and they stare at each other for a moment. Then they smile, return to the menu, and take hands under the table.</p><p>David's grabbed lunch and dinner with Patrick for weeks now. Talked through the tender, tenuous moments. Held his own knee like he wanted to hold Patrick’s hand. Stared at him, tooled with his rings, stared some more. </p><p>This is new. He can barely speak.</p><p>“Whatever you order,” he manages, “get two. You’ll eat two.”</p><p>Patrick smiles, tangling their fingers. “Okay, David.”</p><p>“You say my name a lot."</p><p>“Do I?” </p><p>He nods. “Yes. Keep saying it.”</p><p>Patrick looks up. “Okay, David.”</p><p>David could die in this exchange. No one has ever looked at him like this.</p><p>“So,” he says, dizzy, pulling his menu closer and marking two inarizushi. “Make sure you order the temari…”</p><p>“Order for me,” says Patrick.</p><p>David does and the restaurant empties out as the blizzard batters the walls. They drink more saké and smile as they play with each other’s fingers. </p><p>“Did you order something insane that I’m not going to be able to eat?” Patrick murmurs as the waitress arrives with a dish of wasabi and ginger. </p><p>“No,” says David, adding as he glances up, “maybe a little.”</p><p>“Because I’m actually very hungry. I meant to grab dinner at home but my radiator broke.”</p><p>“Does anything in your apartment work?”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“So you need a place to stay.”</p><p>“If the repair person doesn’t get there, yeah.”</p><p>“Okay, the repair person is not going to get there, because we’re in New York and it’s snowing and it’s one in the morning.”</p><p>“Kinda figured that,” says Patrick. </p><p>“I think you should move,” says David. </p><p>“Oh, definitely, but I have a year-long lease.”</p><p>“Well maybe if we find a place for the apothecary, you can live above it. Like a European artisan.”</p><p>“I don’t think that fixes my lease issue.”</p><p>The waitress returns with a plate of makizushi, inarizushi, sashimi, and tempura. Patrick raises his brows, a bit intimidated.</p><p>“None of this is very adventurous,” says David, catching his expression.</p><p>“Maybe not for you,” Patrick replies, picking up his chopsticks. “How do you use these?”</p><p>David stares at him, then presses his lips together, charmed. “Okay. It’s nice to see that there are some things you can’t do because sometimes I remember you can sing, play guitar, do math, cook, get an MBA, look hot doing all of that--”</p><p>“David.”</p><p>“--and that isn’t right. So I’m very pleased you can’t use chopsticks.” He finishes his saké and picks up his own pair. “So. Put one between your pointer finger and your thumb. Then rest it on your ring finger. Yes. Now take the other one and balance it on your middle finger, and hold that one hard, the other one can be loose…”</p><p>“Would it be wrong to eat with my hands?”</p><p>“Actually no, that’s the traditional way to eat sushi, but I’m enjoying this.”</p><p>“I’m glad you find this entertaining, David--” One of the chopsticks falls. “Uh.”</p><p>David gets up, trying not to laugh, and takes Patrick’s hand in his own. “Okay. You have to hold it more firmly.”</p><p>“Ah. Firmly.”</p><p>“And you want to put your fingers here, not there,” says David, sliding his fingers along one of Patrick’s.</p><p>“I hope you’re this instructive later.”</p><p>David opens his mouth. “Oh my God. Okay, you have a very dirty side that I was not expecting when I first met you.”</p><p>“I wasn’t expecting it either.”</p><p>“Can you use chopsticks now?”</p><p>“Probably not.”</p><p>“Well, the training wheels are coming off,” says David, patting his arm and returning to his seat. </p><p>Patrick attempts to pick up a makizushi. He raises his brows at David, then gestures with the sushi.</p><p>“Do I have to eat this in one bite?”</p><p>“Yes you do.”</p><p>“What’s in it?”</p><p>“I’ll tell you after you try it.”</p><p>“That’s ominous,” says Patrick, then eats the sushi. </p><p>David folds his arms and leans back with a tiny smile. Then he grins at Patrick’s expression, which is overwhelmed, blissful.</p><p>“Omygod,” he mumbles. "What's in that?”</p><p>“Smoked salmon and caviar.” </p><p>“Wow, caviar, and I haven’t even slept with you."</p><p>“Okay. Who are you tonight?”</p><p>Patrick chuckles, flushed. “Uh. Don’t know.”</p><p>“Well. I like him.”</p><p>“Good.” He gestures with the next piece of sushi. “What about this one?”</p><p>David raises his brows, stubborn and playful, insisting Patrick try it first. Patrick puts it in his mouth, then moans and shakes his head. </p><p>“Why haven’t I ever eaten these before?”</p><p>“I honestly don’t know. That one has tsukemono, katsuo, and eel sauce.”</p><p>“Oof, eel.”</p><p>“It’s not made with eels. It’s called that because it’s served <em>with</em> eels.”</p><p>“Huh. And what are the other two things? Do you speak Japanese?”</p><p>“A little bit, those are pickled radishes and tuna.”</p><p>“A little?” asks Patrick.</p><p>David tries to suppress a smile. Tries not to look too delighted or totally in love. </p><p>“Just a little,” he says, popping one of the makizushi into his mouth.</p><p>They spend the next hour trying different sushis and drinking hot saké. The lights flicker on and off with the weather and David realizes he’d stay here in pitch black. He’d stay if it was the end of the world. He thinks distantly of his grandparents, who lived through the end of the world, lived another fifty years, and glances at Patrick.</p><p>He swallows. He’s in trouble. This is <em>that</em> kind of love. The sticky kind. The kind that makes him think of his grandparents and drift in a pop song from '89. He hasn’t known Patrick long enough to feel like this, has he? Is he out of his mind? His thoughts shift suddenly to Sebastian and he surprises himself with a laugh.</p><p>Patrick looks up. </p><p>“Sorry, I was --” David shakes his head, resting his elbows on the table, and a smile darts over his lips. “I was thinking about how I thought the last relationship I had was a good relationship. Or, as good of a relationship someone like me can have.”</p><p>“Someone like you?”</p><p>“Have you met me?”</p><p>“I like you.”</p><p>“I know. But before I met you, I thought I would never be with someone who actually cares about me. I thought I didn’t deserve that.”</p><p>“You deserve that, David.”</p><p>He presses his lips together, eyes sparkling. “Thank you.”</p><p>Then the lights die completely. The other patrons groan and look around, but David stays still, looking at Patrick until his chest hurts. Then he glances away, overwhelmed.</p><p>“You’ve really never been with someone who cares about you?” Patrick asks.</p><p>“I really haven’t. And while that is mostly my fault, because I have the worst taste in men, like, the worst, like a <em>90 Day Fiance</em> taste in men--”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. "That doesn't say much for me."</p><p>"Oh, that statement excludes you."</p><p>Patrick finishes his saké. “Well, I think I have good taste. Solid record so far. One out of one.”</p><p>David gives a faint grin. “Yes, you have excellent taste.” Then his lips soften to a smile. “So you really never...there was never anyone before me? No crazy party in undergrad…?”</p><p>“No one,” says Patrick, glancing into his eyes. </p><p>David nods. “Okay. And you’re sure you don’t want someone who is...less work than I am?”</p><p>“You aren’t work, David, you’re a person.”</p><p>David breathes in. “Okay. You -- you really have to stop saying nice things to me or I’ll start to have faith in humanity again.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t want that.”</p><p>“No,” says David, looking down with a laugh. He shakes his head slightly. “Um. My last boyfriend said I should understand why he cheated on me because he needed a break from…” He gestures at himself. “All of this. And it took me a long time to believe anyone could put up with me after that.”</p><p>“I’m not putting up with you,” Patrick says softly. “I like being around you. A lot. I don’t know how to get through the day when I don’t see you, David.”</p><p>David looks at him again, eyes glistening, and smiles faintly. He nods and takes Patrick’s hand, thumbing over his knuckles.</p><p>“So,” he whispers. “It’s three in the morning.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“And your radiator is broken.”</p><p>“Yes it is.”</p><p>“So do you want to stay at my place?”</p><p>Patrick swallows. “Yeah. Yes.”</p><p>“Okay,” says David, taking out his wallet. </p><p>They split the bill, leave a tip, and get up together. David glances outside and sees the snow has accumulated a couple of feet during the last two hours.</p><p>“I’m moving to Spain,” he says as he takes Patrick’s hand, pulling him down the stairs to the exit. </p><p>Patrick zips his jacket higher. “For the weather or the food?”</p><p>“The weather. And the wine. <em>So</em> good.”</p><p>“Have you been there?” Patrick asks as they step into the snow.</p><p>“Just once…” He glances at his watch. “Oh my God.” He grips Patrick’s hand a little tighter and tugs him down the street at a jog. “Last bus leaves in two minutes, fuck-fuck-fuck…”</p><p>“Why do you know the bus schedule at 3 in the morning?”</p><p>“Run faster."</p><p>Patrick laughs, rushing with him under some scaffolding. They pass a massive gothic cathedral, duck between taxis, and skid on the snow as they turn onto 5th. David tugs Patrick across the street, glancing over his shoulder for the bus, and snow swirls in a sudden gust of wind. They press closer, running the last few steps to the stop, and David huffs in relief as the bus emerges up the street.</p><p>“Love running after that much food,” Patrick pants. “Do I need a bus pass?”</p><p>“You don’t have one?”</p><p>“I tend to walk. Feel like I’ll learn the city better that way.”</p><p>“Um, you will. And you’ll get mugged.”</p><p>“Isn’t New York pretty safe?”</p><p>“No. Oh my God. I’m going with you everywhere from now on.” David eyes him, concerned, and takes out his wallet. He gives him $2.75 in quarters. “Do you just wander the city wherever you feel like it?”</p><p>“Yeah. No sticky situations so far.”</p><p>“You’re either very lucky or very unobservant.” </p><p>Patrick frowns. “Have you gotten mugged?”</p><p>“Only in Los Angeles. But still.”</p><p>“God, that must have been scary--”</p><p>“Yes, it was, they stole all of these,” he says, wiggling his fingers to indicate his many rings, “and I had to replace them.”</p><p>“David, if you’re always cold, why aren’t you wearing gloves?”</p><p>“I don’t like how they look.”</p><p>Patrick sighs and takes both of his hands. “Okay.”</p><p>“Are you warming me up?”</p><p>“Yes,” says Patrick. “And I’m going to buy you gloves for Christmas.”</p><p>David’s breath catches. He’s always chased the strongest sensations, never found power in small touches or eye contact, but he does with Patrick. He’s not cold anymore. In fact, he’s too warm, a little concerned he’s going to get hard at three a.m., at a bus stop, in the snow, just because a guy is holding his hands. </p><p>“Warming up?” asks Patrick.</p><p>David nods a little too vigorously. “Yeah, yes, mhm.”</p><p>He’s thankful when the bus pulls up. They step onto it and take two seats near the front, huddling together, and Patrick glances at an ad for <em>Falsettos</em>.</p><p>“Is that any good? My mom loves the soundtrack, she was texting me about it yesterday…”</p><p>“It’s <em>very</em> good but I can’t watch it without literally sobbing. Also not over the time Alexis said I look like a depressed version of Andrew Rannells, so.”</p><p>“Was that a compliment or…?”</p><p>“I was too afraid to ask.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles and leans against David. David wraps an arm around him. His mouth twitches in a tiny smile and his eyes flicker around the bus. He’s energized despite the late hour, lightheaded and restless; he can barely believe that this moment is his. That he isn’t dreaming or dozing off. That he didn’t invent Patrick to keep him company as he grew lonelier and lonelier in life.</p><p>Patrick snuggles a bit closer. “How much longer?” </p><p>“Fifteen minutes,” says David, rubbing his arm.</p><p>Patrick nods and yawns. David breathes out, relaxing, and closes his eyes as he rests his head on Patrick’s. He’s never thought of himself as warm or affectionate -- life certainly didn’t teach him to be, but with Patrick, he feels sincerely softhearted. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to take care of this man, make sure he’s happy and safe for the rest of his life.</p><p>They get off the bus at a stop near Washington Square Park. David nudges Patrick, who’s almost asleep, and they hurry off the bus and back into the snow. David sends him a smile, bursting, and takes his hand as they walk past the arch. Sugar maples swallow them up as they walk further into the park, finding a path that’s untouched by footprints or bike tracks, navigating by the light of the old-time street lamps.</p><p>Patrick slows, looking at the snow.</p><p>“It’s quiet,” he says, stunned. </p><p>David smiles, amused as a taxi honks. “Almost.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. “Yeah. I miss it.”</p><p>“The quiet?” asks David.</p><p>He nods, coming to a stop. He leans his head back to look into the branches.</p><p>“I always used to hike,” he murmurs. “Whenever I couldn’t...handle it anymore, Rachel, my family...can’t believe I can’t do that here.” He breathes in, eyes wandering the trees, and adds more softly, “Can’t believe I haven’t told my parents I'm...that I’m gay. I want to. I want them to know that about me.”</p><p>David holds very still. He didn’t expect Patrick to grant him this moment. This intimate, fateful moment. He gets the sense that Patrick has never said this to anyone. Not in those words. </p><p>“David, my parents are good people,” he goes on, “I just…”</p><p>Patrick’s tone leaves David weak. He’s never ached for someone like this. Never wished their pain was his own. He would take these feelings for Patrick willingly, eagerly. God, he just wants this man to smile. To feel free.</p><p>“I just…” Patrick goes on. “I just had the best night I’ve ever had in my life, and I want my parents to be happy for me. But I’m their only kid. So I have to be -- I have to be everything for them, and what if this isn’t -- isn’t what they were picturing?” His voice shifts. Climbs up, breaks slightly. “I just can't shake this fear that...there is a small chance that this could change everything. That they might see me differently, or treat me diff--”</p><p>David interrupts him with a hug, shaking his head, softly rebutting this with a sequence of <em>no’s</em> and <em>mm’s</em>. He holds him close, rubbing his back, and Patrick takes a loud, shaky breath before crashing into him.</p><p>David closes his eyes. He rarely hugged his partners. Never did so spontaneously or because he wanted to. But he wants to tonight. He wants to stay until Patrick insists he’s alright. He’d stay all night if that’s what it took.</p><p>“This belongs to you,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to tell them for them, or for me.”</p><p>Patrick sniffles. “How did you tell your parents?”</p><p>“I had what was <em>very</em> obviously a threesome when I went home for Hanukkah when I was 21.”</p><p>Patrick tucks his head against David’s chest and laughs. “Ah. That’s efficient.”</p><p>David laughs too, pulling him closer. “Um, yes. But they knew I wasn’t straight so I never had to come out. Not really. The trickier part was clarifying what the fuck pan means. Analogies help.”</p><p>“Analogies?”</p><p>“Yes, for example, you could tell your parents that you thought you liked white wine, but then you tried a nice, full-bodied red, and you realized--”</p><p>“Are you the full-bodied red in this scenario?”</p><p>“Yes, obviously. And you realized you only like red wine.”</p><p>Patrick snorts. “Okay, David. But I never thought I liked white wine.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I didn’t think I liked any wine. Like, didn’t think I was capable of it.”</p><p>“Oh. So you thought you were ace?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I didn’t know any of these words until…” He almost laughs. “Uh, very recently, so. I just thought I didn’t have a…” He breathes in. “Heart, I don’t know.”</p><p>“Okay, I unfortunately relate to that very much so if you’re ever interested in hearing about how I thought I was a sociopath throughout my twenties, let me know.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes, really, I thought I couldn’t care about anyone. So I didn’t think anyone would care about me. Which might. Mm. Might explain the men and the drugs and the..."</p><p>Patrick breathes out, tucking into him. “Think you were wrong. That you can’t care about anyone.”</p><p>“Mhm. Yes. And you were wrong you could never lo-- like anyone.”</p><p>“Yes,” says Patrick. “Definitely wrong.” He pulls back to look at him. “Thank you.”</p><p>David fights a huge smile. “For what?”</p><p>“You’re the first person I’ve ever said any of this to.”</p><p>“Bold choice,” says David.</p><p>Patrick laughs. “Right choice.”</p><p>David shakes his head, overwhelmed, adoring. </p><p>“Okay,” he whispers. “Do you still want to…?"</p><p>“Go to your place? Yes, David, but all I’m going to do is fall asleep.”</p><p>David nods. “Mhm, yes, that’s fair since it’s…” He glances at his watch. “Ten till four. Do you work tomorrow?”</p><p>“Yeah, at eight.”</p><p>“Maybe you should tell Twyla you were out all night.”</p><p>Patrick glances down. “Twyla. Huh, um, actually I just lied to you -- Twyla knows I like guys.”</p><p>David pops his brows. “Oh! How did that happen?”</p><p>“She said you were cute and I agreed with her.”</p><p>David’s lips dip in a playful frown. “When was this?”</p><p>“The afternoon before that phone call.”</p><p>“<em>That</em> phone call.” He smirks, playing with the zipper of Patrick’s jacket. “I almost asked you to come over that night.”</p><p>“Glad you didn’t, that might have freaked me out.”</p><p>David nods, then murmurs, "Thanks too."</p><p>Patrick looks up. “Why?”</p><p>“Because that’s.” David stops, suddenly choked up. “That’s a lot to say. Out loud. To anyone. And no one’s ever come out to me, so."</p><p>Patrick breathes in, moved, and the snow swirls around them. David takes his hand and they continue across the park. They reach David's apartment quickly and climb the stairs. It’s quiet here, insulated from the storm. David smiles faintly. He never felt like this place was home, but when Patrick’s here with him, he feels it could be.</p><p>He pushes the door to his place open and peeks inside, checking for Stevie. He’s surprised to find her awake, fanning herself with a magazine; she’s stretched out on the sofa, wearing a camisole and shorts with penguins on them, still watching TV.</p><p>“Um,” he starts, disgruntled. “Why are you up?”</p><p>She looks at him, startled, and blinks. “Why are you here?”</p><p>“Because Patrick’s radiator broke?”</p><p>She pushes herself into a sitting position, then slides down the couch to make room. She pops her brows as she reaches for a cough drop. </p><p>“How was sushi?”</p><p>David rubs his temples “It was fine, Stevie--”</p><p>“Just fine?”</p><p>Patrick steps inside and unwraps his scarf. “No, it was excellent, David’s being modest. Feeling any better?”</p><p>“Well,” she says, “I can’t sleep because when I lie down, I can’t breathe.” She gestures at the TV. “But I made it to Season 6.”</p><p>David glances at the TV and sees his mom in the midst of performing open-heart surgery. “Oh my God…”</p><p>“That’s your mom?” checks Patrick.</p><p>“Yes,” says David, in agony.</p><p>Patrick drifts to the couch, sitting by Stevie. “Glad the power’s not out. Went out at the restaurant.”</p><p>“It’s been in and out,” she tells him. “Restaurant?”</p><p>Patrick puts his feet on the coffee table and glances at her. “We actually got sushi.”</p><p>She shakes her head, reaching for some soup. “I don't understand you two." She snuggles deeper into the couch and gestures at the TV again. “How did she get through this scene without laughing?”</p><p>David toes off his boots and joins them. The night is finally catching up with him and he leans into Patrick, sleepy.</p><p>“She’s a very good actress,” he mumbles.</p><p>“She’s performing open-heart surgery on a clown, David.”</p><p>“I know that.” Then he grabs a pillow, shoves it against Patrick, and snuggles against him. “Goodnight.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles and puts his hand through David’s hair. David shivers -- this almost feels <em>too</em> good -- and he grunts in approval.</p><p>“Ohmygod keep doing that…” he mutters.</p><p>“Don’t you have a bed?” asks Stevie.</p><p>“Too tired to move now.”</p><p>“Me too,” agrees Patrick, fingers skimming the bone behind David’s ear. </p><p>Stevie makes a face. “Oh, well, if there's anyone else you want to invite to this tiny couch..."</p><p>“We’re getting a couch tomorrow,” says Patrick.</p><p>David hums. “No, a sectional.”</p><p>“Are you moving in?” jokes Stevie.</p><p>Patrick yawns. “Would if I could.”</p><p>“His place is terrifying,” David adds, snuggling closer. </p><p>“It is,” confirms Patrick. </p><p>David drifts as Patrick thumbs over his jawline. He’s sure he’ll crave this forever now. Think about it every waking moment. Fuck, his fingers are nice. He’s so warm. Cozy. He smells good, like coffee and fresh laundry. Who gave him the right? God, his touch. It’s unwinding every tight muscle, pulling him toward sleep. He can’t remember the last time his jaw wasn’t clenched. The last time he fell asleep without dwelling on the day’s mistakes...</p><p>This is intoxicating. Unforgettable. </p><p>“Mm, Patrick?” he murmurs.</p><p>Patrick returns to combing his fingers through David’s hair. “Hm?”</p><p>David smiles, drowsing. “Huh?”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. “You were asking me something.”</p><p>“Oh.” He laughs too. “Mm. No. Just wanted to hear your voice.”</p><p>“Okay,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping along the silver chain around David’s neck. </p><p>David turns to tuck his face into Patrick’s chest. Patrick’s hand drops to his side, gentle caresses. Their breathing synchronizes as they drift off and David smiles, becuase he's never felt so safe.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So...I had this backstory in mind for David since I started this fic but it *did* get a bit angstier than I originally intended...oops.</p>
<p>TW for discussions around revenge porn &amp; a description of a panic attack (don't want to spoil the chapter but I feel like I had to mention this for some readers, better safe than sorry)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick has plenty of practice wiggling out of bed with someone sleeping on him. Usually he’d be praying Rachel didn’t wake up so he could have a minute alone. But this morning he’s hoping David doesn’t wake up because he feels bad about how late they were up. Also because he’s pretty sure David will make him late for work and he’s <em> already </em> late for work.</p>
<p>He swears softly, extracting his foot from a tangle of phone chargers, and pads to the chair where he tossed his jacket. He puts this on, along with gloves and a hat, and watches David as he sleeps on the couch.</p>
<p>He may have had a little too much last night. Okay, he definitely did, who knew saké was so strong? But he doesn’t regret a word he said, and he remembers every moment in perfect, crisp detail, especially David’s expression in the park. It was so <em>instantly </em>protective and gentle. </p>
<p>He pauses as he tightens up the laces on one boot. Maybe he should stay. Maybe he should make coffee and wait for David to wake up, skip his shift to make breakfast...</p>
<p>He shakes his head, tightening the other boot. If he starts down that path, he’ll never hold down a job again. He’ll just hang out at home, cooking for David. Not the worst life. Pretty appealing. Dreamy, actually -- dreamy, but unsustainable. His rent’s due tomorrow. </p>
<p>He sends a last glance at David, then searches for a piece of paper to leave a note. He finds a steno pad on the kitchen table and he scribbles a few words.</p>
<p>
  <em> Went to work, still up for the flea market? I’m off at 3.  </em>
</p>
<p>He zips up his jacket and adjusts his hat, reluctant to leave. He wants to linger and study their apartment. David’s orderly, monochromatic style somehow survives among Stevie’s folksy one. He clearly picked the coffee table - sharp black, inlaid with glass - and she picked the kitchen rug, multicolored with specks of gold. </p>
<p>Patrick likes it here. He wants to stay. Wants David’s whole life -- this apartment, Stevie, his flighty sister, his parents, his past. He wants all of it, even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts. He knows David doesn’t show this side to many people. He knows David presents himself as complete, polished, and he’s damn good at it. But that’s only a part of him, and Patrick’s in love with all of him.</p>
<p>
  <em> Get out of his apartment before you do something stupid like make him pancakes. Or latkes. With applesauce. </em>
</p>
<p>He forces himself out the door.</p>
<p>When he arrives at the Math Lab, Twyla stares at him. If he wasn’t so sleep deprived, he’d realize his appearance isn’t exactly professional -- he’s wearing his rehearsal clothes, which he slept in, and he doesn’t have his backpack. </p>
<p>Twyla frowns in amusement as she collects some papers from one of the study tables. </p>
<p>“You look like you could use some coffee,” she jokes.</p>
<p>“Yeah, in an IV,” he admits.</p>
<p>She smirks, stacking the papers. “Fun night?”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah, -- look, I’m sorry I’m so late, I didn’t--”</p>
<p>“Sleep at your place. I gathered that.” Then she grins. “How’s David?”</p>
<p>He hopes he isn’t blushing -- it’s bad enough that he’s tingling all over. </p>
<p>“He’s good <em> -- is </em> there coffee?” </p>
<p>She smiles. “Fresh pot in the back.”</p>
<p>He nods in thanks, hangs up his jacket, and slips into the back to pour a cup. He stays here for a moment, leaning on a bookshelf, and looks down as he loses himself in images of last night. He thought that touching David might dull his urges a bit, take the edge off his need for more skin-stubble-sweat--</p>
<p>His phone dings. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:45: math lab doesn’t deserve you</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 8:45: it’s how I pay my rent </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:45: if I pay your rent will you come back? </em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick starts to type a reply, but another text comes in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:46: because I’m thinking about you</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:46: maybe doing more than thinking</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:46: also! can we do 4 not 3?</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick stares at the second text in the sequence. A fever flashes up his spine and he steadies himself with a breath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 8:46: Sure </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:46: ok</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:47: I liked your note</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:47: very retro &amp; romantic</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 8:47: leaving a note is retro? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:47: yes</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:47: so meet me at 4, make sure you’re hungry</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 8:47: hungry for bargain furniture? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 8:47: you’re cute</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick pockets his phone with a tiny, curious frown. Then he picks up his coffee and heads into the lab to face a wave of panicky undergrads. </p>
<p>His shift passes quickly and he hurries home before meeting David. His apartment is freezing, the radiator still out, so he lingers in the shower, stretching his shoulders under the hot water; he thinks about David, eyes closed, but he catches his hand before it strays; he won’t be able to meet David’s eyes if he touches himself <em>right </em>before seeing him.</p>
<p>He forces himself out of the shower and into his chilly room. He decides to wear his navy v-neck sweater -- the nice one, the one he saves for graduations and interviews -- and picks a pair of dark jeans.</p>
<p>
  <em> Whatever you’re wearing is just going to end up on my floor later so don’t overthink it... </em>
</p>
<p>Great, imaginary David is back. He leans on Patrick’s dresser, smirking, watching him.</p>
<p><em> I’m not sleeping with you on our first date, </em>thinks Patrick.</p>
<p>David raises his brows. <em> Wouldn’t be so sure. </em></p>
<p>Patrick puts on his watch, breathing out; he’s unprepared for that, but he’s equally unprepared to resist it. He toys with the edge of his sleeves, rolling them up a bit.</p>
<p>David plays with a lamp on his dresser. <em> And this is actually our second date, so... </em></p>
<p>
  <em> This is up to me, not you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I am you. I’m the part of your brain telling you to fuck me. </em>
</p>
<p>He wonders what David expects. What David thinks <em>he </em>expects. He shakes his head, rubbing a bit of cologne on his wrists, something he never does. He trusts David. He doesn’t trust himself. He’s not sure he’ll be able to catch himself before he falls in, before he’s sleeping with him every night, and then what? What if they hit some impassable point, realize some unbridgeable difference between them? He doesn’t think his heart would recover. Not ever.</p>
<p>His phone dings and he glances at the display.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:54: Did that big nor'easter hit you?? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick, 3:54: Yeah huge storm and my radiator broke </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:54: No!!!! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:55: Do you have a friend to stay with? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick takes a breath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick, 3:55: Yeah. Actually I’m meeting him now. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:55: Good! Friend from school? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Imaginary David drifts along his bookshelf, watching him with dark, soft eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick, 3:55: He’s the designer for Cabaret. And I tutor him sometimes. And we’re thinking of starting a business. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:55: What?? Patrick, that’s exciting! You have to call later!!  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:55: What’s his name?? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick can’t help but smile as he types. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick, 3:55: David. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom &amp; Dad, 3:56: Tell David we say hi! Stay warm honey </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He breathes in hard, flushed and flustered. They know his name now. Maybe he’ll call them tonight and describe David, and they’ll know from his tone that David’s everything to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick, 3:57: Will do </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He grabs his coat and heads out, deciding to walk. He needs a few minutes alone in the cold; he’d rather be home, walking under icy pines and listening for loons, but the occasional city squirrel will have to do for now. He ducks into a café for tea to-go and gets a coffee (well, a caramel macchiato, skim, 2 sweeteners, and a sprinkle of cocoa powder) for David. Then he walks the last block to the flea market, taking out his phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 4:17: Where are you? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: by the pizza stand</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: also! tiny glitch...Jocelyn is here</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: I made the grave mistake of stopping at the theater and the even graver mistake of mentioning I was going prop shopping</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: so sorry</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 4:18: nicely done David </em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: I said I was sorry!! </em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>David Rose, 4:18: you’re late by the way</em> </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick chuckles and continues into the market, searching for a pizza stand amid tents of textiles. He finds David -- and Jocelyn -- in a snowy nook, going over a list. David looks dewy and relaxed, like he napped all day; he’s wearing a gray overcoat that makes him look a bit like a brooding Bronte character; it works on his physique and ties in with his boots, dark leather with the tiniest brass accents. Patrick slows, staring at him, but Jocelyn interrupts his gaze.</p>
<p>She waves, bundled in a bubblegum pink parka, and elbows David.</p>
<p>David looks up and immediately mouths <em>sorry</em>, gesturing at Jocelyn. Patrick shakes his head to show he doesn’t mind, (though he does) and joins them. He hands David his drink and David replies with a soft, startled glance. Then he takes a sip and stares. </p>
<p>“You know my coffee order.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, of course.”</p>
<p>David teeters slightly and Patrick can’t discern the urge in his eyes. He’s either about to kiss him or about to cry. </p>
<p>But he cradles his coffee closer and simply says, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “Sure. Is it good? Never been to that café before--”</p>
<p>David nods too, smiling hard; he dips his face to hide this, sipping more coffee.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Patrick adds to Jocelyn. “Didn’t know you’d be here, I would have gotten you something--”</p>
<p>She waves this off. “Oh, no worries, my hands will be full with all the <em> incredible </em>pieces we’re going to find!” She turns to David, exuberant. “So where do we start? The table?”</p>
<p>He’s still in a reverie about the coffee. Patrick watches him and a few words filter in from last night; he recalls David’s broken tone and holds still. </p>
<p>
  <em> I thought I would never be with someone who actually cares about me. I thought I didn’t deserve that. </em>
</p>
<p>Patrick spent the last half hour wondering if he was ready for a relationship. If his inexperience would bungle everything. Now he sees David’s inexperienced too. He may have slept with half the city -- his words -- but he was telling the pure truth when he said he’d never been in love; that he’d never <em>been </em>loved. For a moment, Patrick’s overpowered by the weight of this responsibility; he’s the first person David’s felt any of this for -- if he fucks up, how would David ever get over it? But then a little flame lights in his chest. He’s not going to fuck up. He’s going to forge through the first fevered moments and catch David whenever he falls. </p>
<p>He’s going to make him feel loved. So, so <em>undeniably</em> loved.</p>
<p>“You alright?” he checks, reaching for his hand.</p>
<p>David breathes in and nods, unable to speak.</p>
<p>Patrick tries not to think about what his last boyfriend did to him if this is his reaction to the right coffee order. He suspects it was worse than cheating, that David’s keeping something under wraps, but he knows not to ask. David will tell him if he wants to. So he simply tangles their fingers and David sends him a tiny, thankful glance. He nods, smiling.</p>
<p>They drift into an annex filled with furniture and Jocelyn unfolds the list, squeaking with excitement.</p>
<p>“So,” she says. “We need the table for Frau Schneider’s salon. And we need some suitcases. We still need <em>the </em>chair.”</p>
<p>“We’re going to use one of my kitchen chairs,” says David with a wrinkle of his nose. “Because Stevie has practiced Mein Herr <em> far </em> too many times on them for me to ever sit in them again.”</p>
<p>Jocelyn nods and crosses this out, then points at a shaggy mid-century lamp. “Ooh-”</p>
<p>“No,” says David, pinching the hood of her parka to pull her back.</p>
<p>The three of them wander the market for the next hour. Patrick keeps his gaze on David, barely tracking the furniture they pick, and David fields Jocelyn’s nosy questions.</p>
<p>“You’ve never told me how you two met!” she says as they sort through antique jewelry. </p>
<p>“Math Lab,” says David, picking up a gold bird-of-paradise brooch. “Imagine.”</p>
<p>“Oh in undergrad?” asks Jocelyn, nodding. “That’s so sweet…”</p>
<p>She drifts away, examining a fur scarf, and Patrick glances at David.</p>
<p>“She thinks we’ve been dating for years.”</p>
<p>David makes a face. “<em>That’s </em> alarming.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, kind of is, this being our first date.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Date.”</p>
<p>Patrick pauses as he grabs a silvery chain. He falters at David’s expression. “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought--”</p>
<p>“Oh no, it absolutely is a date, the word just hit me like a runaway truck.” </p>
<p>“Uh. Okay.”</p>
<p>“And this is really a second date.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs before he can stop himself, recalling their imaginary conversation. David slowly smirks, nudging him as they move to a table of silk dresses. </p>
<p>“What?” he asks, </p>
<p>“Nothing, I was just…” He pauses, tea halfway to his mouth, and gives in. “Okay, do you ever have conversations with people who aren’t really there?”</p>
<p>“Yes, who doesn’t?”</p>
<p>“Okay, so, I was deciding what to wear earlier and talking to you about it.”</p>
<p>David’s lips dip in a playful frown. “Me?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you’ve kind of been this...unshakeable voice in my head for a month.”</p>
<p>David opens his mouth. “Oh my God.”</p>
<p>“What, I haven’t been for you?” jokes Patrick.</p>
<p>“Mm no, though I do keep dreaming about you.”</p>
<p>“Good dreams I hope.”</p>
<p>“Oh, the best,” says David, shameless.</p>
<p>“Okay,” says Patrick, turning him by his shoulders. “Let’s find that table…”</p>
<p>“What did I say to you?” asks David as they drift out of the annex and into the nearest tent. </p>
<p>“You reminded me this is the second date, like you did just now.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Innocent reminder.”</p>
<p>“Yeah--” He stops, pausing by a drop-leaf dining table; it’s slightly scuffed but otherwise gorgeous. “Hey, what about this one? For the party scene?”</p>
<p>David nods, impressed, and gestures at the vendor. He haggles expertly for five minutes, fingers floating from Patrick’s arm to the table to his wallet. </p>
<p>“Mm, no $250,” he says sweetly.</p>
<p>“$300’s the best I can do,” the woman says. </p>
<p>“Okay, but,” says David, tugging Patrick closer, “it’s my husband’s birthday and this is <em>just </em>like the table he had growing up. It’s perfect. So…$275?"</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him and the woman sighs. </p>
<p>“Fine,” she says, sticking a <em> sold </em>label on the table. “But you’re on your own with shipping.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you so much!” says David, flashing a smile that could stop traffic. “Very kind of you. We’ll be back for this by six.”</p>
<p>She nods and he pulls Patrick away from the booth, glowing with success. </p>
<p>“Didn’t actually have a table like this growing up,” says Patrick. “Also don’t remember marrying you. And I’m not sure what you did is ethical, but nice table.”</p>
<p>“All’s fair at flea markets. One time I told a vendor I was dying and she cried and paid <em> me </em>.”</p>
<p>“Okay, David? Not admirable. Not the kind of story you share on a first date.”</p>
<p>“Second date.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, playing along. “Right. Well, in that case, great story to share.”</p>
<p>“Karma did get me for that. I got hit by a bike on the way home. A <em> bike</em>, Patrick. Eugh. I have a scar right here…” He drums a few fingers just above Patrick’s groin. “Which always makes for some very interesting pillow talk.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s pretty sure he’ll pass out if David actually touches him there because this contact almost made him stumble.</p>
<p>“I’m assuming you lie about how you got it?” he jokes. “Running with the bulls or Olympic fencing or…?”</p>
<p>“I usually say a jealous lover tried to stab me.”</p>
<p>“No, you don’t.”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t. Although that <em> has </em> happened.”</p>
<p>Patrick glances at him in concern. “Someone stabbed you?”</p>
<p>“No, someone <em> tried </em> to stab me but Alexis pepper-sprayed him.”</p>
<p>“Okay, gonna need that story, but can we get dinner first? Because--”</p>
<p>“Obviously. Why do you think I told you to be hungry? Have you ever had a chicken waffle sandwich? Don’t answer. C’mere…”</p>
<p>David tugs him behind a booth piled with Moroccan fabrics and masks, then along a table of candles and through a tunnel toward a patio. Patrick slows, gaze drifting along David’s shoulders. He glances at his fingers, wrapped around his wrist, and takes a breath-- he’d follow this man around the city until his shoes wore through, no questions asked. </p>
<p>“Mm so there’s also a potato waffle,” says David, finding a table by a patio heater. “And the club sandwich is amazing too, <em> and </em> the fries…”</p>
<p>“How did you figure out that food is my love language?”</p>
<p>David raises his brows over the menu. “It’s everyone’s love language.”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles. “Is it?”</p>
<p>“Mm no. Mine is guys knowing my coffee order.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t coffee count as food?” </p>
<p>“No, it’s very different,” says David, adding, “what do you want?”</p>
<p>“Have to go with the potato waffle because that sounds hard to make.”</p>
<p>“Why is that?”</p>
<p>“Potatoes are really starchy, so getting them airy like a waffle would be tough. Want to see if they can do it.”</p>
<p>“Mhm, you still owe me latkes -- okay, one second…” He pops up and approaches the food truck, then returns with two beers and a basket of fries. He glances at Patrick, flushed, and adds in a murmur, “There was a movie I wanted to see in Soho tonight…”</p>
<p>Patrick looks up, smiling as he nabs a fry. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>David fights a smile. “Yes, if you want to--”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I do,” Patrick says, too fast. “What is it?”</p>
<p>David’s about to answer when someone pauses by their table. They look up, startled by a man, about 35. He’s tall, wearing a slouchy cardigan, his hair styled into an effortless mess. He has a camera around his neck.</p>
<p>“David,” the man says. “Oh, it’s been too long--”</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at David, jolted by his tone. It’s angry and affronted. It’s also scared.</p>
<p>“What can I say? The snow, this market...I couldn’t resist the...unpretentious pageantry…and when I saw you, I knew I had to say hello...” He pauses, looking at Patrick, and offers his hand. “Sebastien Raine.”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t shake his hand. He knows this is David’s ex. <em> The </em>ex. Sebastien raises his brows, eyes glassy, and returns his gaze to David.</p>
<p>“Where did you find this one? Bible camp?”</p>
<p>David’s eyes flash and he puts on a breezy laugh. “How funny. No, actually, I found him at school. NYU. We’re both business majors. Who would have thought? Not you.”</p>
<p>Sebastien adjusts his satchel on his shoulder. “I’ve always known what you're capable of, David.” He raises his brows, expression drifting as he studies David, and he reaches to lift his chin. “You look tired--”</p>
<p>David throws his hand off, flinching back. “Don’t touch me.”</p>
<p>“I think you’re brave, David...really, going to college, dating someone…” He gestures, wrist sloppy and dismissive, at Patrick. “...someone so different.”</p>
<p>“You need to leave,” David says flatly.</p>
<p>“I’d love an afternoon to explore this,” Sebastien continues. “This evolution. It’s plaintive, yet so powerful--”</p>
<p>Patrick cuts in. “He asked you to leave.”</p>
<p>“Imagine if I listened to you every time you asked me to leave,” Sebastien says to David, taking a fry; he swipes it through some aioli and slowly lifts it to his mouth. “What brings you here? A new apartment?” When David doesn’t speak, he murmurs, “No answer? Not even for me? Shame.” He eats the fry and glances across the market as the wind picks up. Then he looks at Patrick. “A word of advice. When you get tired of him -- and trust me, you will --”</p>
<p>“Fuck off!” David snarls, suddenly on his feet. “Don’t talk to him! Don’t look at him! He isn’t my boyfriend and he doesn’t deserve whatever new revenge project you’re planning!”</p>
<p>“Don’t be so defensive, David...and that wasn’t what those pictures were, I hope you know--”</p>
<p>“Yes, they were! <em> You </em> are a coked-out sociopath who wouldn’t know permission if it hit you in the face, and you’re here because you need a new project because no one will work with you anymore because you’re a pathetic fraud and <em> everything </em> you touch falls apart!”</p>
<p>Sebastien raises his brows a touch. “Well, you’d know. Wouldn’t you?” </p>
<p>David winces but manages to say, “Fuck a cactus, Sebastien.”</p>
<p>Sebastien smiles. “Sweet as always. Take care, David…”</p>
<p>Sebastien disappears into the nearest annex and David grips the back of his chair, staring after him; then he dips his head, huffing, and trembles. </p>
<p>Patrick moves closer. “David?”</p>
<p>David shakes his head. Patrick gets up, but he hesitates. David doesn’t look like he wants to be touched -- not by him, not by anyone. He’s stiff and shaky.</p>
<p>“David, what can I do?” he asks, chest aching. </p>
<p>“Noth--nothing, you --” His jaw jumps. “Nothing.”</p>
<p>Then he grabs his wallet and his coat and hurries off the patio. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>David makes it to the nearest restroom before he crumples. He hides in a stall, covering his face, crying as the world folds in on him. Stupid sounds startle him -- the door opening, water running, laughter in the adjacent hall. </p>
<p>He hasn’t had a panic attack in months. He can’t be having one now. Not today, not around Patrick. He can’t know about this. Ever. </p>
<p>His thoughts spiral and he sinks to the floor, chest tight. The first time he had a panic attack, he thought he was dying. Now he just wishes he was. He thought he left this part of himself behind, as if time heals anything, like the right person erases the wrong one. He thought he wouldn’t have to explain any of this to Patrick, but now he’s in a flea market bathroom, hiding, hysterical. He’s pretty sure “it was a bad breakup” doesn’t cover a public panic attack. He’ll have to tell him. He’ll have to say <em>something.</em></p>
<p>“David?”</p>
<p>His eyes fly open. He doesn’t know how Patrick found him here. He probably checked a dozen doors, called his name, asked strangers if they’d seen him. He’d do that, because he’s a good person. A person who doesn’t deserve this mess.</p>
<p>He wants to answer, but he can’t. His voice is stuck in his throat like a sob.</p>
<p>“David, if you’re in here, I just...I want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all, if you don’t want to talk that’s fine...”</p>
<p>He stays silent. He hears Patrick sigh, footsteps retreating. Then he lets out a yelpy “Wait!” He tries to take a breath, adding, “I’m here...in here…it’s not locked…”</p>
<p>Patrick opens the door and murmurs, “Oh, David. Okay, hey, it’s okay, here…” He kneels by him to help him up. “It’s okay...you can get through this...try to breathe…”</p>
<p>David nods, drifting into him; he closes his eyes as Patrick hugs him, finally able to draw a short, shaky breath. Patrick rubs his back and he breathes out, then melts into him, crying. </p>
<p>“Shh, you’ve got this,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be okay.” He thumbs over David’s temple. “Is there something I can do? Do you usually take something?”</p>
<p>David slowly nods. “Um. In my -- in my bag, there’s -- there’s a bottle…”</p>
<p>“Okay,” says Patrick, reaching to open his bag.</p>
<p>David bites his bottom lip, a bit dizzy. “On the left…”</p>
<p>“Got it, okay…”</p>
<p>David’s too distraught to think about how this looks -- crying in a bathroom, asking his brand new boyfriend for a xanax. But Patrick’s unfazed, totally compassionate. </p>
<p>“Here, I have some water…”</p>
<p>David nods, pulling back; he doesn’t want to leave Patrick’s arms but he knows -- even now -- that this is the only thing that will help. He lets out a shaky breath and takes the pill that Patrick puts in his hand, then drinks some water. Patrick rubs his arm, watching him, expression careful and concerned. David takes a deep breath and looks down, unable to meet his eyes.</p>
<p>“That’s good, just breathe like that…”</p>
<p>David swallows. “Have you -- um, why do you know what you’re doing?”</p>
<p>“Because I had these all the time in college. And last year.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” mumbles David.</p>
<p>“It’s alright--”</p>
<p>“No, I’m sorry about this. Um. About him. I didn’t think he would show up…”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to explain it, David. And you don’t have to say you’re sorry. This isn’t your fault, okay?”</p>
<p>David nods, leaning his head back; then he wipes his face and turns on the nearest sink, waiting until the water is icy. He splashes his face and rubs his eyes hard, taking another, steadier breath. Patrick hands him his scarf to use as a towel and he almost smiles.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he mumbles. “But wool isn’t very absorbent.”</p>
<p>“Knew I should have worn my bathrobe today--”</p>
<p>David laughs. “I’ve seen worse.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs too, relieved, and pulls David close again. David manages to meet his eyes. </p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” he says again.</p>
<p>Patrick shakes his head, thumbing over his brow. “Hey, it’s okay, I understand.”</p>
<p>“What happened was just...so fucked,” he whispers. “He um...he--”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to tell me if you aren’t ready,” Patrick says quickly.</p>
<p>David’s eyes flicker and he swallows. “After we broke up -- this last time, not when we dated before -- he um...he published...every photo he ever took of me on his blog...and um...a lot of those photos were <em> just </em> for him...and he captioned all of them with these... <em> very </em> specific and hurtful things...things only he knew about me, so…”</p>
<p>Patrick stares. </p>
<p>“And then his friends shared those posts with as many people as possible so <em> all </em> my friends saw them, and my family, and my new boyfriend -- who left because he 'didn’t realize' I’m an outright whore--”</p>
<p>“He called you that?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Yes he did. Because that was one of the captions. So um. I didn’t...I didn’t want you to know about this…for obvious reasons.”</p>
<p>Patrick shakes his head, soothing him with soft, steadfast touches. “God, David. Fuck I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, he should be in prison--”</p>
<p>“Ha. Mhm. My lawyer laughed me out of the room.”</p>
<p>“What’s wrong with people?” Patrick murmurs.</p>
<p>“I just thought,” David goes on, voice breathy, “I thought for <em> once </em> I could be the…” He laughs and wipes his eyes again. “Total package. I mean, I know I have the looks and the personality but I’m unfortunately insane--”</p>
<p>“You’re not,” says Patrick. “And you are the total package. You are for me.”</p>
<p>“Mhm. This um...this probably isn’t the last time this will happen so if you want to bail…”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”</p>
<p>David nods and murmurs, “Okay...okay…”</p>
<p>“Do you want to go home? We didn’t really eat. I could make you dinner.”</p>
<p>“God yes,” says David, sniffling.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Patrick is the partner we all deserve tbfh. Sorry this chapter took so long to post btw! I got sucked into S7 prompts.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I changed the rating from M to E lmao sorry to do this in the middle of the fic but I got over my smut-writing cold feet so...this happened. </p><p>I'll do the next chapter from Patrick's POV. The hot mess pansexual part of my brain just really likes writing David *shrugs*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Never seen a fridge this organized,” Patrick remarks, peeking in David’s fridge for pasta ingredients.</p><p>“Yes, it’s by category and expiration date and also by color,” says David, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.</p><p>He’s changed into some black joggers and his favorite sweater -- French terry-cloth, winter white with black lightning bolts around the neckline. His hair’s still damp from a shower and he’s wearing his glasses, eyes tired from crying earlier. </p><p>He’s smiling now, relaxed, watching Patrick explore his kitchen. Stevie’s asleep in her room, knocked-out on flu meds, thank God.</p><p>“This is <em>really </em>good cheese…” says Patrick.</p><p>“Yes, I spend more money on cheese than rent.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles and tosses the cheese onto the table, then sorts through eggplants, peppers, salami, gourmet pickles…</p><p>“So you buy all this stuff but you can’t cook?”</p><p>“I can make sandwiches,” David says proudly.</p><p>“So what do you do with the eggplants?”</p><p>“<em>Those </em>were a mistake. I can't shop for groceries when I’m high. I buy anything that’s colorful and phallic.”</p><p>“Well, that’s one way to broaden your diet.”</p><p>David grins. “Mhm. What do you make with eggplants?”</p><p>“Well tonight,” says Patrick, “I think I’ll make pasta.” He gestures with a container of ricotta. “Another mistake?”</p><p>“I thought it was cottage cheese.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. You don’t strike me as a cottage cheese guy.”</p><p>“I’m not and it’s reassuring you know that. <em> That’s </em> Stevie’s.”</p><p>Patrick laughs and grabs some parmesan from the fridge, then turns in search of a cutting board and knife. David directs him to the drawer by the stove, then leans his head on his hand, watching him with a look of pure love. He doesn’t bother to disguise it, not after what happened today -- not after Patrick took care of him, uncomplaining, and said exactly what he needed to hear. This man’s the best opportunity he’s ever had to open up and he’s not going to blow it.</p><p>Patrick turns and gestures with a chef’s knife. “This is the dullest knife I’ve ever used--”</p><p>“Okay, what were you expecting? I’m not Wolfgang Puck.”</p><p>“Do you have a sharpener?” he asks, turning back to the eggplant.</p><p>“Unless you mean a pencil sharpener, no.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. David leans back, drinking his tea. He’s never come off a panic attack feeling this assured; usually he spends the remainder of the day in bed, staring at the wall, wandering through a minefield of what-ifs; <em> what if I’m never happy again? what if no one ever loves me? </em>Then he’d drink a bottle of wine and do something self-destructive.</p><p>This is better. This is much better. </p><p>He smiles, watching Patrick toss a cloth over his shoulder. </p><p>“Do you want an apron?” he teases. “A chef’s hat? A film crew and a spot on the Food Network...?”</p><p>“Only if the show includes your commentary.”</p><p>David gets up and leans on the counter to be closer to Patrick. “Oh, I think I can handle that.” Then he glances at the eggplant chunks. “Can I put on some music? And do you want a glass of wine? I feel like that would complete the aesthetic you have right now.”</p><p>“Can’t cook without the aesthetic,” Patrick replies.</p><p>David smiles. “No.” </p><p>He reaches for two glasses and unearths a bottle of wine from the back of the fridge. Then he unlocks his phone and scrolls through his music library. <em> Sade </em>might be a bit much. He’s not sure he’s ever heard <em> Smooth Operator </em>and not gotten railed -- which he’s not opposed to but it probably isn’t what he needs after an emotional day like this. </p><p>“What kind of music do you usually listen to?” he asks.</p><p>“Everything. Really. I’m not picky.”</p><p>“So if I play <em> Limp Bizkit </em>--”</p><p>Patrick laughs, reaching for some garlic. “Okay. Not that.”</p><p>“Mm.” David drifts out of the kitchen, still scrolling, and gets his speaker out of his room; then he selects <em> Wonderland </em>and glances at Patrick, somewhat shy; nothing says <em>quiet night at home </em>like angsty gay synthpop, but he likes this album. “Okay, I’m sure you’ve heard this…”</p><p>Patrick turns, popping a slice of parmesan in his mouth; he listens for a moment and nods at the baseline. “Very 80’s. But I don’t think I’ve heard this.”</p><p>“How are you a gay man in your thirties and you haven’t heard this?”</p><p>Patrick takes a drink of wine, then pours some olive oil in the pan. “Well David, I came out yesterday, and I was up until 4, so I didn’t have time to learn <em> all </em> of gay culture.”</p><p>David nods. “Mhm. Well, you’re lucky you have me then.”</p><p>Patrick tosses the eggplant in the pan. “Sure am. I have a confession.”</p><p>David gestures at him with his glass, waiting.</p><p>“I’ve never listened to one Diana Ross album--”</p><p>“Okay, I’m relieved you know enough to make that joke, but I’m going to be <em> very </em> disturbed if that’s true.”</p><p>“It’s true,” he murmurs, toying with the stove. He glances up. “How spicy can I make this?”</p><p>David frowns, intrigued. “You like spicy food?”</p><p>“Yeah, and men. Looks really are deceiving.”</p><p>David laughs. “So, you can make it very spicy, as long as you <em> also </em> make it cheesy.”</p><p>“That’s the plan,” he says. </p><p>“Spices are up here,” David adds, opening a cabinet above his head. “I can get you a step-ladder--”</p><p>Patrick elbows him away. “Hah.” </p><p>David smirks to himself, returning to his seat; he sits down, cross-legged, and watches as Patrick sprinkles pepperoncini in the pan, dices garlic, stretches for a box of pasta and two cans of tomatoes. He stays quiet, listening to the music, sipping wine with a steady smile; he’s never felt so spoiled or so soft, never wanted a night to last forever so badly.</p><p>“I like this,” says Patrick, nodding at the speaker. “Who’s it by?”</p><p>“Andy Bell? No?” David shakes his head. “Okay. My God. We’re going to do this every night. You cook, I’ll play all the music and movies you should already know.”</p><p>Patrick smiles. “Fine with me, but--” His phone rings and he glances at David. “Oh. It’s my mom. I told her I’d call.”</p><p>“Answer it,” says David, curious. “Put her on speaker.”</p><p>Patrick raises his brows, silently asking David if he’ll behave, and David nods and sips his wine. Patrick’s gaze lingers on him as he answers his phone.</p><p>“Hey mom. Yeah, hey, can I put you on speaker? I’m cooking…”</p><p>He sets his phone on the counter and David turns down the music, looking at Patrick, pulse picking up in anticipation. </p><p>“What are you making?” asks Marcy.</p><p>She has a cozy voice, exactly what David expected.</p><p>“That pasta with eggplant you made one time? The one grandma hated--”</p><p>“Oh, she was so unimpressed,” laughs Marcy. </p><p>“Yeah hopefully David will have a better reaction. He’s here by the way.”</p><p>“Oh, hi David! It was so nice of you to let Patrick stay at your place! And people say New Yorkers aren’t nice!”</p><p>“Oh, we aren’t, and I’m clearly getting the better end of this deal. Also! Your son doesn’t know who Andy Bell is, which concerns me considering he’s a musician."</p><p>Marcy laughs. “Oh no! Oh, Patrick…”</p><p>“David’s closer to your generation than I am.”</p><p>David scoffs. “Excuse me. I’m two years older than you.”</p><p>“Four,” says Patrick. “That tutoring really paid off.”</p><p>David smiles and flips him off. Patrick shakes his head and checks the pot of water he set to boil. David gets up to pour more wine, then sits on the counter. He’s going to shamelessly insert himself in Patrick’s family life -- something he’s never done with any partner. He’s always kept those worlds very separate, but he wants this with Patrick.</p><p>“We <em>finally </em>got the drive shoveled,” Marcy continues. “How are you holding up? Any news on the radiator?”</p><p>“Yeah, there’s a waiting list for repairs,” says Patrick. “And I’m tenth, so…”</p><p>“Oh dear,” says Marcy, adding with a laugh, “Do you have an extra room, David?”</p><p>“I don’t! But if Patrick wants to cook for me every night, he’s more than welcome to move in!”</p><p>“Well, I think he should,” says Marcy. “Patrick sent me pictures of his apartment and it does not look safe. And oh, I miss his cooking. Very much. And his music. And him.”</p><p>“Maybe you should visit,” says David. “Have you ever been here?”</p><p>“Oh, no no,” laughs Marcy. “No, we’re not big travelers, in fact the only time I got on a plane was to see Patrick graduate from college. Where did you go to school, David? I understand you’re also getting your MBA?”</p><p>“Oh wow, no,” says David. “No, I’m getting my bachelor’s because I spent my twenties making as many mistakes as possible.” </p><p>“Well good for you!” says Marcy. “Not the mistakes! Although I’m sure you learned from them.”</p><p>David lets out an airy laugh. “You’d be surprised.”</p><p>“As a teacher,” Marcy continues, voice firm and warm, “I can promise you, it’s never too late to go to school. Never ever. You should be proud.”</p><p>David glances at Patrick with a slight smile. Patrick smiles too, flipping the eggplant in the pan with a flick of his wrist. </p><p>David drinks some wine. “Mm. You taught kindergarten?”</p><p>She laughs. “I did, for almost thirty years. Elmdale Elementary. I even had Patrick in my class -- there was only one, of course -- and that was the best-behaved class I’ve ever had. He told everyone to be nice because the teacher was his mom.”</p><p>“So sweet,” says David, smirking at Patrick.</p><p>Patrick shakes his head. “That was the year everyone started calling me bumblebee because you’d call me that in front of everyone...”</p><p>“<em>Bumblebee</em>,” whispers David, delighted by this new ammo.</p><p>Patrick eyes him, grating some cheese. </p><p>“I couldn’t help it,” says Marcy, adding, “better than tootsie-pop.”</p><p>David raises his brows. “Oh my God.”</p><p>“Your parents didn’t have embarrassing names for you, David?” asks Patrick. “Nothing?”</p><p>“My mother called Alexis “the other one” when she couldn’t remember her name, but not me,” he replies, adding to Marcy, “Do you have more? I’ll be sure to call him all of these, especially when we’re with important people.”</p><p>“There’s always butterball. He was the chubbiest baby--”</p><p>“Okay, mom? You don’t need to share this.”</p><p>“--11 pounds!”</p><p>David smiles wickedly. “But he turned out so petite!”</p><p>“Having fun?” Patrick murmurs, leaning over him to reach the salt shaker. </p><p>“So much,” whispers David. </p><p>Marcy laughs, then sighs. “Well, I’m actually glad you’re on the phone David, because I wanted to say how happy I am that Patrick found a friend...I was worried about that, you know, in such a big city. And I’m sure you know he wasn’t having a very good time before he moved.”</p><p>“No, that all sounded <em>very </em>dark,” says David.</p><p>“Oh, and Patrick? Rachel called--”</p><p>He and David both hold still, meeting eyes. </p><p>“--she mentioned she’s doing better and said you told her something that cleared things up for her. So if you were worried, you don’t need to be.”</p><p>Patrick leans on the counter and David rubs his shoulders. </p><p>“Thanks, mom. I know she’s doing better.”</p><p>“And you sound so happy lately,” she adds. “I know I was skeptical about the breakup and you moving and…” She sighs. “But we’re happy if you’re happy. Even if you’re in New York.”</p><p>David glances into Patrick’s eyes, careful and warm.</p><p>“I’m happy, mom,” Patrick murmurs. He holds David’s gaze and smiles softly. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”</p><p>“You deserve to be, my sweet boy,” says Marcy. “My goodness...I should let you go, shouldn’t I? I want to hear about your business but not if your dinner is getting cold!”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”</p><p>“Perfect,” she says. “So nice to talk to you, David!”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Marcy!”</p><p>“Love you, mom,” says Patrick, hanging up. </p><p>He looks at David with a delicate, affectionate expression. </p><p>“So she’s lovely,” David says. “And you’re a lot like her. And I’m glad you’re happy.”</p><p>“You make me happy,” Patrick replies, still staring into David’s eyes.</p><p>David’s heart flutters and he slips off the counter. Patrick drifts closer, flushed, and David slides one hand up his chest. Patrick’s breath catches and David leans in, lips slightly parted; they’re a heartbeat away, noses touching, when a timer rings.</p><p>Patrick pulls back, sliding the pot off the stove. “Gotta be al dente, David.”</p><p>David tips his head back. <em> Of fucking course. </em>Patrick drains the pasta and pours it into the pan bubbling with eggplant and tomato; then he frowns, hands on his hips, and glances at David. </p><p>“Small problem.”</p><p>“What’s that?” asks David, voice rough with longing. </p><p>“No fresh basil.” </p><p>“Mhm.” David finishes his wine and nabs his coat from the back of his chair. “Okay, you cooked this very nice dinner for us and there <em> is </em> a bodega around the corner, so I will get you fresh basil, but next time, I will not be so accommodating.”</p><p>Patrick nods. “Noted.”</p><p>“Stay here,” David adds.</p><p>“Nowhere else to go, David.”</p><p>David raises his brows, then sweeps out of the apartment, wallet in hand. He walks down the street to the corner, dodging trash bags, hugging himself against the cold; the plows have pushed the snow into sharp drifts on every curb and the sidewalk is slick, dotted with leaves from last night’s storm. </p><p>He’s never gone out in lounge clothes, in his glasses, for something he doesn’t desperately need. He’s never tried to make his partners happy; he never wanted to and he never knew how. But making Patrick happy is different. It’s addicting, and it’s easy, and it belongs to him. He’s never seen Patrick smile at anyone the way he smiles at him and he’s going to keep it that way.</p><p>He hurries into the bodega and searches the produce section for fresh basil. There’s none in any neat packages, but he does find a basil plant in a tiny pot. It looks sad, underwatered, and unflavorful, but he grabs it. He also gets a bottle of red wine -- a better fit for buttery pasta -- and a bar of chocolate. He’s about to check out, but he pauses at a display of fresh-cut flowers.</p><p>He’s never bought flowers. Okay, he did once, for the funeral his mother threw for her career when she got booted off <em> Sunrise Bay. </em>But that doesn’t count.</p><p>He approaches the flowers, almost shy, and touches a huge red dahlia. He knows flowers symbolize different things depending on color and type, and he wonders which bouquet says <em>thank you for not judging my panic attack and taking me home and making me dinner and also I’m in love with you</em>.</p><p>He picks up a bouquet of white hydrangeas, tiger lilies, and red roses, then presses his lips together. Is he really doing this? What if Patrick thinks this is silly, or cliché, or premature?</p><p>He buys the flowers before he can doubt himself. Then he hurries back down the street, into his building, and up the stairs. He pushes the door open, heart pounding, and sees that Patrick has set the table. There’s a lit candle, two plates, and a dish of fresh parmesan. The music is louder now, a new artist, the album left on autoplay. </p><p>David holds still. The song is <em> Everywhere </em>by Fleetwood Mac. Jesus. No pressure.</p><p>“Hi!” he calls. “So, they did have basil, but like, a <em> plant</em>. So. You’ll be taking that home because I kill anything that isn’t a succulent--”</p><p>Patrick turns from the stove and David stops at his expression. His eyes find the flowers and he falters, stepping out of the kitchen to join him. David pushes the flowers into his hands and he stares.</p><p>“David…”</p><p>David swallows, suddenly emotional. “I...I just thought...” He stops to collect himself, taking a sharp breath. “Okay. I know I’m not good at this but I’m trying to be better so I...I want you to know that you’re everything to me, you make me feel safe, you make me laugh. I can’t stop thinking about you, ever, and--”</p><p>Patrick kisses him. A real kiss, unhesitating, and David’s brows pop in surprise; he holds still for a fraction of a second. Then he grips Patrick closer, moaning into his mouth, kissing him like he won’t get to again. Patrick drops the flowers on the counter, mumbling David’s name, and puts his hands in his hair. David recalls that Patrick’s never kissed a guy, that this is a big moment, that he should be mindful...then Patrick presses against him and he doesn’t think about anything beyond taste, tongue, heat, the couch they’re falling onto...</p><p>They shift together, David on top, and kiss slower, deeper; Patrick moans and the sound nearly knocks David out; he needs more of that right fucking now. He lets his weight down and their bodies drift, a natural fit, hips on hips...David’s relieved that Patrick’s as hard as he is, probably as stupidly close as he is, just from a kiss...</p><p>He moves his hips on Patrick’s, kissing his neck, and Patrick’s fingers clench in his sweater.</p><p>David pulls back, gauging Patrick’s expression, and relaxes when he smiles. He lifts into another kiss, then rests his head on the couch and thumbs David’s lips, staring up at him. David breathes out, heart clamoring against his ribs. </p><p>“I feel that way too,” Patrick says. “What you said. And I was thinking about you when I sang that song.”</p><p>David nods. “I know.”</p><p>“Might be awkward if I wasn’t.”</p><p>“Yes. Yes it would be.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles, eyes drifting in David’s, then leans into another kiss; it’s a gentle kiss but one that demands more-more-more and Patrick’s hands drift under his sweater, fingers on his skin; they fall into each other, for each other, easy and lost and laughing in love. David mumbles a moan and kisses Patrick under his jaw, a bit rougher, teeth finding friction...Patrick’s hips jump and David pulls up, breathless, grinning…then he pushes against Patrick, lips finding his again, kissing slow, soft, messy. </p><p>Patrick groans in his mouth after a moment. “David<em> ... </em>”</p><p>David could get high on his voice. He could die in it.  But he pulls back. </p><p>“Is this okay?”</p><p>He’s surprised he’s forming words; he’s pretty sure he’s blind now, and drunk, and somehow immune to gravity. </p><p>Patrick nods. “Yeah, yes…”</p><p>“So you want to…?”</p><p>Patrick nods again, impatient, eyes bright and blown. “Yeah, kiss me--”</p><p>David chuckles. “Mm, take my glasses off...” </p><p>Patrick does this and David kisses him again; this kiss is hungrier, urgent and needy, both of them chasing heat. Patrick rocks his hips against David’s and David groans, loud, his touch slipping lower; he’s usually a bit more controlled; okay, a <em> lot </em>more; he usually doesn’t give a guy the satisfaction of a groan like that until he’s really off the edge, but he can’t help himself with Patrick. Not that Patrick’s an emblem of self-control right now; he’s a mumbling mess, <em> very </em> grabby, a little rough, everything David wants...</p><p>Patrick bites David’s lip, tonguing the bite-mark, and floats his fingers over one of his nipples.</p><p>David’s eyes just about roll back in his head. He lets out a huffy, strangled moan and grips Patrick closer. He’s not sure how Patrick got this good, or if it’s this good because he’s in love -- terrifying -- but he doesn’t care; he needs those fingers on every inch of him.</p><p>“Okay, if you’re...if you’re going to do <em>that</em>...I need you in my bed…”</p><p>Patrick opens his eyes, panting softly. “I think I need to take it a little slower than that, David...”</p><p>David nods, his touch going gentle. “Okay.”</p><p>“But I don’t want to stop,” Patrick says. “And we...we should probably move anyway...”</p><p>David laughs. “Mhm. Stevie doesn’t need to see this.”</p><p>“She really doesn’t,” says Patrick, kissing him.</p><p>David takes Patrick’s hand, tugging him from the couch to his room, quiet as they pass Stevie’s door. He turns on a dim light, pushing his door wider, and they drift inside, kissing again, hands straying as they lean-kneel-fall onto his bed. Patrick ends up straddling David and he looks a little spooked, a little startled at himself. David hums. </p><p>“Mm what’s that look?”</p><p>“Is this okay?”</p><p>“Anything’s okay.”</p><p>“No, I mean…”</p><p>“Oh are you asking what I like?” murmurs David. “Because that’s a long list…”</p><p>Patrick lets out a laugh. “Okay. I just...don’t really know what I’m doing--”</p><p>“I’m about to come in my pants so maybe you do.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes widen. “Oh.”</p><p>David plays with the hem of his sweater. “Can I take this off?”</p><p>Patrick nods, lost in him, and David sits up on his elbows; he kisses him, smiling, then lifts his sweater over his head and pulls his hands over his shoulders, down his chest and abs -- he’s strong, stocky in a way that David finds stupidly sexy, and his skin is hot under his touch, slick and sticky with sweat. He licks his bottom lip, drunk on him, and Patrick leans to kiss him again. He moans, openly gone, and Patrick inhales. </p><p>“David…”</p><p>David doesn’t want his name in anyone else’s mouth. Not ever. He lifts to kiss Patrick and Patrick pulls on his sweater, asking. He nods hard, smiling, and they break the kiss with a dizzy laugh. Then Patrick takes off his sweater -- their bodies brush and they both groan a little, kissing again -- and Patrick tugs on the silver chain around his neck. David’s heart jumps and his pulse starts to pound, spiraling lower, undeniable. </p><p>“Mm keep doing that…”</p><p>Patrick’s finger slips along the chain and he pulls on it again, guiding David into a deeper, dirtier kiss. David moans and grinds his hips up, nails dragging on Patrick’s biceps as his hands wander...Patrick’s hard against him and every tiny shift, every kiss of friction is almost unbearable...David really <em>doesn’t </em>want to come in his pants, but one more minute of this and he’s going to; if Patrick’s pulse is any indication, so is he.</p><p>“Still okay?” he manages, out of breath.</p><p>“So okay,” says Patrick, drifting in their kiss, shifting to urge David back on top</p><p>David hums as he moves, eyes flashing with affection; he glides his hand down Patrick’s chest, pausing on his abs, fingers poised and playful.</p><p>“Is this why you do the baseball?”</p><p>“Play baseball. And yeah, David. I play strictly for the body--”</p><p>David laughs, then whirls his fingers lower. “Mhm well. It works.”</p><p>Patrick’s breath falters and he blushes. “David.”</p><p>“Mm what? I’m just...admiring…” </p><p>Patrick chuckles and David grins. Then he drifts closer, brushing his mouth on Patrick’s, sliding his hand up, over Patrick’s pecs and his left shoulder… he kisses him deeply, memorizing his stubble, the notch above his lips, a tiny scar on the side of his mouth. He’s buzzy with anticipation, hot and dizzy...he feels everything he hoped to feel with every hook-up, everything he <em>never </em>felt…</p><p>“This is so different,” Patrick mumbles on his mouth. </p><p>“Mm?” asks David.</p><p>Patrick thumbs his stubble. “This.”</p><p>David laughs, actually charmed. “Mhm. I’m usually a <em> bit </em> more clean-shaven--”</p><p>“No, I like it,” Patrick says instantly, eyes locked on his. “I like…” He breathes in, flushed, and shakes his head slightly. “I like how you taste.”</p><p>David hums, studying him. “How do I taste? And if you say woodsy--”</p><p>Patrick laughs, carefree, more relaxed than David’s ever heard him. David grins, kissing him again, gentle and devoted...he’s never kissed someone like this...never lingered in these lulls, happy to joke or talk or pause to meet eyes….he’s never wanted to stare at who he’s with, drink them like wine.</p><p>The room moves around him as the kiss deepens, as Patrick groans and grabs him closer. He almost says it, almost says those three stupid words…</p><p>Then Patrick reaches into his pants and his mind goes absolutely blank; he feels faint, like he stood up too fast. He moans, hips jumping toward Patrick’s touch.</p><p>“Mmgod-ngh--Patrick--”</p><p>No one has ever touched him like it matters, like <em>he </em>matters...he’s never had to hold back in bed; never wondered if he’d say something too serious or too sincere…</p><p>“You okay?” asks Patrick.</p><p>And he’s never answered that question because no one has ever asked.</p><p>“God yes keep -- keep doing tha...fuck, <em> fuck </em>…”</p><p>Patrick kisses him hard and they moan together; his eyelids flicker as Patrick touches him, pulse jumping, skin hot with sweat; he nods, almost begging, a jolt running up his spine and down his legs...God, he’s fucked. <em> This </em>is what it’s like to lose control. <em> This </em>is the feeling he chased with a thousand people and never quite found. </p><p>He gasps a breath on Patrick’s lips. “Patrick--”</p><p>Patrick tilts his head into a breathless kiss, greedy, and wrings David’s cock a little faster, a little rougher. David almost shouts, clenching Patrick’s arms, nails biting into his skin...and Patrick moans, so wrecked and soft, that David shivers as he comes, actually shakes, every nerve firing at once…</p><p>He groans Patrick’s name, lights playing in his mind like fireworks-- apparently that’s not bullshit; apparently that <em>actually </em>happens when it’s this good. He laughs into their kiss, dizzy and playful, fingers drifting from temple to collarbone…</p><p>“Holy fuck...” he murmurs, opening his eyes.</p><p>Fuck, Patric is beautiful; he’s handsome - David knows that - but that isn’t the word that comes to mind looking at him now. No, he’s beautiful - his eyes, his brilliant warmth. David doesn’t know how to look away. He’s hypnotized. </p><p>Patrick smiles, shy, and David shakes his head in undisguised amazement. Patrick grins, lighting up in David’s gaze.</p><p>“So,” murmurs David, thumbing his bicep. </p><p>“Was that o--”</p><p>David interrupts, laughing. “Yes. Yes, in case you couldn’t tell, that was very much more than okay. Like. <em> Kind </em> of concerning.”</p><p>“Ah. Concerning.”</p><p>“Mhm,” says David, kissing him. “Like, how did you get that good?”</p><p>Patrick laughs. </p><p>“Also,” David adds, breathier, playing with the shell of Patrick’s ear, “if you think you’re new at this, I’m <em>also </em>new at this. Like. Not wanting to just get off and get whoever I’m with out of my apartment as fast as I can…”</p><p>“Well, I’m glad you’re not about to kick me out, because my radiator--”</p><p>David laughs and pushes him. He shakes his head, smiling into another kiss, then moans as David’s fingers slip to his cock. </p><p>“So,” whispers David, sliding his other hand up, over Patrick’s pecs and one shoulder. “Can I blow you?”</p><p>Patrick lifts his brows and opens his mouth. His eyes flicker. Then nods hard, mumbling into another kiss, “Yeah...yeah, David, yes…”</p><p>David wants to tease him for being so eager, but he stays quiet, shifting so he’s straddling him; he tucks his face into Patrick’s neck and kisses him here, a little rough, leaving a chain of pink marks as he works lower; he undoes Patrick’s belt one-handed, effortlessly, slips his fingers under his waistband, plays with the trail of hair above his crotch...</p><p>Patrick lifts up, groaning, and David’s eyes flicker in satisfaction. He takes Patrick’s length in his hand; he’s big, of course, because it wasn’t enough that he’s handsome and talented and funny and kind.</p><p>“Why are you perfect?” David mumbles. “Jesus…”</p><p>“David…”</p><p>“No, I’m actually asking.”</p><p>Patrick laughs, shaking his head, then lets out a startled, yelpy moan as David loops his fingers around his cock. David smirks and drifts lower, kissing down Patrick’s chest - he pauses to tongue one nipple, grazing it with his teeth - and Patrick groans so loudly that David almost laughs. </p><p>“Okay, I do have a roommate…”</p><p>“Don’t care…”</p><p>“Wow. Aren’t you considerate--”</p><p>“David,” he begs.</p><p>David hums, moving lower, ribs, hip...he pulls Patrick’s boxers down and kisses the notch between his leg and his cock...Patrick’s hand finds his hair, tangles it in his fingers, urging him closer, faster. David tugs his waistband lower, his cock springing free...he’s fucking flawless and veiny and dripping…</p><p>“My God…”</p><p>“<em>David… </em>”</p><p>“Um your cock is very pretty. Just so you know.”</p><p>Patrick laughs and shakes his head, overwhelmed. David licks a stripe to his bellybutton, pausing to kiss him here. Another groan, quieter, needy. David reminds himself Patrick’s never done any of this; he feels a bit drunk on that power, stunned that out of every man on earth, he’s the one that gets to share these firsts. Fuck, he’s gone for this guy. Fully donezo, far too soft, getting emotional about how much Patrick must trust him to be here...</p><p>“David?”</p><p>“Mm?” He works back down, kissing Patrick’s side, nuzzling the V between his cock and his hipbone. He sinks over him, slow and messy, and Patrick pulls on his hair, moaning loudly, incoherent as he tries to speak. David pulls up, lips popping off the head of his cock, and looks at him with a wicked smile. “Yes?”</p><p>Patrick laughs. “Shut up--”</p><p>David takes him into his mouth again, tonguing the back of his shaft, lips drifting to one of his balls; he sucks it between his lips like a berry...</p><p>“Da-David--”</p><p>Patrick’s fingers are tight in his hair, needy and fucked, spellbound.</p><p>David pulls up, lips stringing a strand of spit and sweat from the tip of Patrick’s cock.</p><p>“I’m just -- close,” Patrick pants.</p><p>David drifts up with a chuckle. “I know.” He plays gently with Patrick’s balls (Patrick twitches toward his touch, making a noise halfway between a shout and a sob) and sinks over him another time; he’d be happy to do this the rest of the night, but Patrick doesn’t sound like he’ll last another minute. He toys the tip of his cock in his lips, softer, before taking him as deep as he can.</p><p>“Dav--<em> fuck </em> --David, <em> David </em> --”</p><p>Fuck his voice is hot like that. David groans around him.</p><p>“David…”</p><p>David pulls up with a slight <em>pop</em>, eyes glassy, lips pink and swollen. He kisses Patrick’s hip again, drifting, drunk. “Come in my mouth, okay?”</p><p>“Fuck…”</p><p>David smiles, then sinks over him a last time, humming...Patrick tugs his hair hard, choking on his breath, and groans a string of <em> God-yes-fuck-David-yes </em> …David swallows him down, practiced, then lets his tongue trail up his cock, lazy and slow...he doesn’t want to stop but he <em>does </em>want to see the look in Patrick’s eyes, so he drifts up, finding his expression.</p><p>David knows he’s good, but he’s not sure a guy’s ever looked at him <em>this </em>helplessly; he meant to gently tease Patrick, kiss him and make him laugh, but he’s suddenly breathless. Speechless. Stunned into silence just from his glance. He softens, unexpectedly solemn, and Patrick stretches to kiss him, shaky and flushed.</p><p>“David…”</p><p>
  <em> I love you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it… </em>
</p><p>God, he wants to say it, it would be so easy to say it right now, blitzed with hormones, and Patrick’s looking at him so tenderly, so intimately, because this is <em>theirs</em>, just theirs…</p><p>“Fuck, I…” Patrick trails off, then laughs. “I’m glad you can’t do math--”</p><p>David laughs too, grateful Patrick interrupted his <em>very </em>dangerous train of thought. He kisses him, grinning, playful.</p><p>“Excuse me,” he murmurs, “but I have a solid C in that class…”</p><p>“Impressive, David…”</p><p>David nods. “Mhm…” He kisses him again. "I'm glad too."</p><p>They stay like this for a moment, nose-to-nose, chuckling and high on touch. </p><p>“Do you think dinner’s cold now?” Patrick mumbles into another kiss.</p><p>David breathes in, eyes widening, and raises his brows. “Oh, <em> fuck</em>.” He pushes Patrick away, tugging his pants up, and holds up one finger. “I’ll get us some, stay there--”</p><p>“No,” laughs Patrick, catching his waistband, “no, I didn’t mean that, c’mere…”</p><p>David grabs his face and kisses him. “Absolutely not, you made us a special, beautiful dinner and we are going to eat it.”</p><p>Patrick leans back on the pillows, laughing. “Okay, David…”</p><p>David smirks, eyes flashing in amusement, and ties his waistband. Then he pulls on his sweater and goes into the living room. The music is still on and the candle is still lit, but unfortunately, Stevie isn’t still asleep. She’s sitting on the counter, cross-legged, eating a dish of pasta. </p><p>She raises her brows at David, mouth twitching.</p><p>“Not a word,” he says, voice soft and dangerous</p><p>“Looks like you got distracted,” she says, adding, “He bought you <em> flowers</em>.”</p><p>“No, I bought him flowers,” says David, grabbing two plates. </p><p>She opens her mouth and squints. “<em> What</em>?”</p><p>He eyes her, plating some pasta, and she huffs in amazement.</p><p>“What happened to you?” she asks.</p><p>“Stevie. If you kill my vibe right now, I’ll never speak to you again.”</p><p>“Wow,” she breathes, adding as she takes a bite of pasta, “this is fucking delicious, by the way, like, the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth…”</p><p>David sprinkles some cheese on the pasta. “Yes, he’s <em>literally</em> perfect…”</p><p>Stevie smirks, studying him. “So. You’re glowing. So I assume it was good.”</p><p>He raises his brows. “Die in a ditch, Stevie!”</p><p>Her smirk only grows. He rolls his eyes, turning back to his room, but he pauses; he can’t help himself. He looks over his shoulder, suddenly sincere, and mouths <em> oh my God </em> to communicate the <em> explosive </em> orgasm he had.</p><p>She grins. “Scale of 1-10…?”</p><p>“Oh, easy eleven--”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Yes--”</p><p>“David, as much as I want to listen to you update Stevie, I’m actually pretty hungry!” calls Patrick.</p><p>David makes a face at Stevie and she snorts. He hurries back into his room and looks at Patrick, who’s still leaning back in bed, relaxed and shirtless. </p><p>“Have fun!” yells Stevie. “I have extra condoms so just holler--”</p><p>David shuts the door on her voice. “God.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’d say we should go to my place, but my roommate would be even worse,” says Patrick, accepting a plate of pasta from David. “Rehearsals are gonna be interesting now, aren’t they?”</p><p>“Just <em>constant </em>innuendo…” groans David, sitting down.</p><p>“It’s already pretty bad,” admits Patrick, taking a bite of pasta.</p><p>“Yes it is,” says David, sitting beside him. He nudges him with his knee, about to tease him some more, but stops when he takes a bite of pasta. He stares, mouth full, and raises his brows. He shakes his head, almost annoyed. “This is <em> amazing</em>…”</p><p>Patrick grins. “Thank you…”</p><p>“I’m kidnapping you,” says David. “You can’t leave now.”</p><p>Patrick laughs and smiles. “Fine with me.”</p><p>David smiles too, watching him. Then he leans on him, ecstatic, and closes his eyes. Patrick chuckles, kissing the side of his head.</p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p><p>He doesn't say it, but boy is it close.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>David and Patrick head to a hotel for some privacy, but not everything goes according to plan.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I sneaked some lil twists into this chapter, hope you like them. Also there will be MORE sexytimes next chapter, because this one went in a different direction than I originally intended :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick wakes up with his face tucked against David’s side. He smiles in a ray of sunlight, half-asleep, happy to stay warm, tangled up, skin-on-skin. </p>
<p>Then his eyes fly open. He’s in bed next to David. In bed next to David because they kissed and then did...a whole lot more. Holy fuck. </p>
<p>The feelings flood back as he stares at David. He’s still asleep, wearing a soft, peaceful smile, shirtless and glowing in the sun. Patrick knows he’s one of <em>very </em>few people who’s seen David this unmasked, this natural and happy, and the power of that hits him in his chest. A month ago he was working in the math lab, restless, bargaining with the universe for David to show up one more time, just once, just so he could see his face again…</p>
<p>Now he’s in his bed and it’s serious. They’ve shared too much for this not to be instantly, undeniably serious. Boyfriend serious. Partner serious. </p>
<p>He didn’t mean to jump in the deep end when he got to New York, but somehow he’s only a few months in and he’s out, dating a guy...not just any guy. David. David Rose, the human equivalent of a cliff dive. He breathes out, shaky in a good way, heat rushing from his top to his toes. Then his chest clenches and he stares at David with raw affection. This is bad, so good, but bad, <em> so </em>bad, he didn’t even last a semester without falling in love. Wholesale, inescapably in love. <em> Fuck</em>. </p>
<p>He sinks a little closer, nudging his nose against David’s shoulder, and chuckles as David’s lips twitch. David turns, pulling him into a sleepy embrace, and his eyes flicker open.</p>
<p>“So…”</p>
<p>Of course his voice is rough and gravelly and deliciously deep in the morning. Patrick’s never going to leave this room, is he?</p>
<p>“I was thinking…” David continues. “We do everything we did last night, at least twice, then get blueberry pancakes and study because I remembered my midterm is tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Oh, great, tomorrow,” says Patrick.</p>
<p>“Mhm,” David replies, amused, sliding his hand up Patrick’s chest.</p>
<p>“Mm,” Patrick grunts, closing his eyes, tucking closer...he’s in trouble if that touch made his mouth water, made his cock twitch, sent a rush of heat and hormones to every cell in his body. “Which midterm?”</p>
<p>“Accounting?”</p>
<p>“I love accounting.”</p>
<p>“Then maybe you can get a spray tan, grow three inches, lose half your muscle mass, and take the test for me.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like a lot of work for one day.”</p>
<p>David laughs. “Mhm.”</p>
<p>Patrick glances up, laughing too, and kisses him. David hums into the kiss, then cradles Patrick’s face in his hands, gentle and amused, his thumb brushing the bump of his jaw. Patrick groans softly, pressing closer--</p>
<p>
  <em> Ding! </em>
</p>
<p>“Okay,” sighs David, turning over to grab his phone. “I’m putting this on silent then--” He pauses. “Why do I have twenty messages?”</p>
<p>Patrick turns to look over his shoulder. “Maybe someone died.”</p>
<p>David swipes his phone open and raises his brows, scrolling through a Clifton-Tippy meltdown. </p>
<p>“If I murder them, will you be my alibi?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, kissing David’s shoulder. “For sure.”</p>
<p>David pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay.” He tosses his phone. “I’m going. But only because my boyfriend and my best friend are headlining this!”</p>
<p>“Oh, boyfriend?” Patrick teases.</p>
<p>David’s breath catches. He looks at Patrick with a hint of fear and embarrassment and Patrick pulls him close.</p>
<p>“Oh, David, hey. I’m--”</p>
<p>“I just...I don’t use that word. I’ve actually only used that word once. And you know how that ended.” He pauses. “Okay, I <em> also </em> called Anderson Cooper my boyfriend, but that was to get into a club.”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles, thumbing the corner of his mouth. “Well. I don’t think my name will get you into a club. But you can definitely call me your boyfriend.”</p>
<p>David nods, overwhelmed, and kisses him. “Okay.”</p>
<p>His phone dings again and Patrick nudges him up. He doesn’t want him to go, but he’s pretty sure David is the only person on earth who can pull their director out of a scotch-fueled spiral. David lingers to kiss him again, then smirks and heads for the shower.</p>
<p>He returns after half an hour, dressed in a skirt-pants combo and a sweater with the words <em>wild aloof rebel </em>splashed on the front. Patrick doesn’t comment. It’s definitely not the weirdest thing David owns. He recalls him wearing a furry-hooded-plague-doctor getup at one of their rehearsals. </p>
<p>David adjusts his rings. “So, if I’m not back in an hour, it means I’ve committed a double homicide and fled to Mexico.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. He’s sitting up now, wearing one of David’s sweaters while he sips a cup of coffee. David smiles at the sight of him, groans in protest, and kisses him goodbye. He leaves, only to return for another kiss. Patrick laughs and pushes him away, their fingers trailing off each other as David disappears. Patrick listens to the front door click shut and hums, glancing down, coffee snug in both hands. He wants to stay here, sleep some more, get drunk on David’s scent in the sheets, but he’s neglected his responsibilities long enough. Two assignments are overdue, he forgot to submit his timesheet, and God knows the status of the radiator or the utility bill. </p>
<p>He sighs, finishing his coffee, and sits up straighter. Then he blinks. He’s never seen a bedroom look like this. The blankets are on the floor, tangled with David’s clothing, and there’s a pair of boxers on a lamp by the window. He can feel David’s lips on his again, David’s hands wandering his skin...his mind flashes with blurry, breathless images of David drifting lower and lower, taking him in his mouth…</p>
<p>He expected to feel shy today. He’s never liked feeling out of control and he thought last night would be no different. He was wrong. Laughably wrong. He <em>loves </em>that feeling, needs it. He was missing it his entire life and now he knows he’ll feel empty without it.</p>
<p>He’s suddenly sweating, helpless to the images, closing his eyes to recall David’s voice. He didn’t expect David to be so sincere and deliberate -- or so diabolical. Who gives a blowjob like that and has the audacity to talk and tease the other person through it? David, apparently. What a monster. A beautiful, irresistible monster who’s going to tank his grades and ruin his sleep and fill his life with light and love and everything else he thought he’d never feel...he could live a thousand years and never forget the look in David’s eyes last night. The world could disintegrate and somehow, that look would remain.</p>
<p>He breathes out, slow and soft. Before last night, part of him was clinging to the safety of the shore; a tiny voice was telling him to hold back before he got swept out to sea. Now he wants to laugh. This isn’t the sea at all. <em> This </em>is the shore, and David’s his lighthouse, and for the first time in his life, he feels whole. Settled. Unafraid. </p>
<p>His phone buzzes in the pillows and he feels for it.</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:42: if you want breakfast, there are bagels in the freezer </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:43: thanks but I’m still in your bed </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:43: mm where you belong </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:43: I’m heading to my place if you want to come over. 92 Thompson, 3B. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:43: oh, I do  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:43: getting on the subway ttyl  </em>
</p>
<p>Patrick lingers in bed a few more minutes before forcing himself up. He puts on his wrinkled jeans, smiling to himself, then tidies up the room and goes into the kitchen. He pauses at the flowers, now in a vase, then grins and tucks them into a bag so he can take them home. </p>
<p>
  <em> I know I’m not good at this. </em>
</p>
<p>David’s wrong about that. Patrick feels goddamn swept off his feet. </p>
<p>He shakes his head, smiling again, and goes out the door with the flowers. He walks home, catching up on emails, stomach swooping, heart jumping out of nowhere. He’d think he developed a dangerous medical condition if he wasn’t coming off the best night of his life. </p>
<p>When he gets home, he finds that the radiator is working -- maybe too well, the apartment must be 80 degrees, ideal for his forever-chilly, gloveless boyfriend. <em> Boyfriend</em>. His heart seems to squeeze through his ribs. <em> Focus. Laundry. Bills. Homework.  </em></p>
<p>“I was starting to worry you died!” Ray calls from the kitchen. “I have chai if you want any!”</p>
<p>Patrick takes off his jacket. “Thanks, yeah, how much did the radiator cost?”</p>
<p>“$495, but they gave us a discount! $490!”</p>
<p>“Generous,” murmurs Patrick going into the kitchen. “It was my turn for utilities, right?”</p>
<p>Ray waves this off, pouring tea. “You take next month.” He turns and hands Patrick a cup. “<em>So</em>? How are rehearsals?”</p>
<p>“Not sure, I think my director’s on another bender,” says Patrick, leaning on the counter and drinking some tea. He pauses, flushed, and glances up. “Uh. Is it alright if my -- my boyfriend stays over later?”</p>
<p>Saying the word out loud nearly floors him and suddenly he wants to scream it. Wants everyone on earth to know that David Rose is his boyfriend. That he's with a man. That he gay, in love, happy, fucking untouchable. Nothing in the world matters beyond this.</p>
<p>Ray pops his brows. “Yes! Of course!” Then he chuckles. “Ah, no wonder you are never here!” He wags his finger. “I should have known.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s kind of a...recent development. It’s David, by the way, the guy I'm--”</p>
<p>“Ah! The one who can’t do math!”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs and drinks more tea. “Yeah. Him.” He heads for his room, adding, “Thanks, by the way, we’ll be quiet.” Then he frowns, not sure why he volunteered this, mortified at everything that implies. “Uh. Just -- the music. You know. If we’re. Rehearsing.”</p>
<p>Ray nods. Patrick turns away, paling, and shakes his head as he goes into his room. He distracts himself with laundry and homework for the next hour, sipping tea, eating a PB&amp;J. He’s just started an apology email to his econ professor for his late assignments when he hears Ray greet someone.</p>
<p>“You must be David! I’m Ray Butani, realtor, Patrick’s roommate. It is so good to finally meet you. You’re all Patrick’s talked about for months. Tea?”</p>
<p>“No--oh, thank you.”</p>
<p>Clearly Ray just put a cup of tea into David’s hands. </p>
<p>“So where’s Patr--?”</p>
<p>“What an interesting sweater!”</p>
<p>“Yes, um--”</p>
<p>“I have a tee-shirt that says <em>dream</em>. H&amp;M clearance rack! Is that where you found that?”</p>
<p>Patrick hopes David isn’t having a stroke.</p>
<p>“Wow, my God, no -- where’s Patrick?”</p>
<p>“Through there,” Ray says brightly, adding, “we have extra sandwiches! Oh, and don’t drink the tap water! There’s a Brita in the fridge!”</p>
<p>“Okay,” says David, breathy and disturbed. </p>
<p>Patrick sets his laptop aside as David comes into his room. David’s mouth is slightly open, eyes bright with alarm and confusion. </p>
<p>“So,” he whispers. “I see what you meant about Stevie being easier to deal with. Although this tea is <em> very </em> good.” </p>
<p>Patrick chuckles, warm and flushed at the sight of him, tingling. He shifts off the bed, tugging David further inside, and David smiles as he kisses him.</p>
<p>Then he murmurs, “So...I hope your morning was better than mine.”</p>
<p>Patrick pulls back a bit, already lost in him. “Hm, what happened?”</p>
<p>David’s eyes flash in amusement and exasperation. Patrick gets the sense he’d be fuming if he wasn’t still drunk on happy hormones.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says, voice dripping with drama as he sits on the edge of the bed, “remember Jerry?”</p>
<p>“Yes, David, I know the guy who’s playing the Emcee.”</p>
<p>“Well <em> Jerry </em>decided his job at Waffle House was more important than this production, and he quit last night. Oh, and Tippy had a heart attack.”</p>
<p>Patrick blinks. “What?”</p>
<p>“Mhm, it seems Jerry called Clifton last night and told him, and I quote, to stuff this subpar musical up his ass because he just got promoted to <em> head grill operator </em>.”</p>
<p>Patrick opens his mouth. “<em>What</em>?”</p>
<p>“Yes. So.” David finishes his tea and sets it aside. “Thank God you have me because I already found a replacement.”</p>
<p>Patrick raises his brows. “Oh?”</p>
<p>“Mhm,” says David, starting to smirk. “He’s very handsome. So talented. He has a beautiful voice <em> and </em> the acting chops, and he’ll say yes because I’m dating him.”</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him, then laughs. “What?”</p>
<p>David takes his face in his hands and kisses him. “Listen to me. You could play every role in that musical, because you’re that good, and yes, you are <em> amazing </em> as Cliff but there are a million Cliffs in this city.”</p>
<p>“You want me to learn a new role a month from opening?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I do. And you’re going to, because you know I’m right.”</p>
<p>“David, that role is...it’s a lot, I don’t know if I can be...that person.”</p>
<p>“Mm I saw plenty of that person last night,” says David, poking him gently in the chest, flirty and undeterred. Then he softens, nudging him with his nose. “You don’t have to, obviously, but I know you can, and I’m not just saying that because Jerry deep-dicked us...”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs, leaning into him, and lets out an overwhelmed breath. “Can I think about it?”</p>
<p>David nods, smiling, and kisses him again. Patrick almost lets the kiss deepen, but he pulls back, too curious.</p>
<p>“Tippy had a heart attack? Because Jerry quit, or…?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, unrelated, something to do with Access Hollywood and a poodle.”</p>
<p>“So are you the producer now or…?”</p>
<p>David hesitates. “Mm, no. This is where it gets <em> really </em>fucked.”</p>
<p>“Okay, we already have Waffle House and a heart attack, not sure how it could get worse--”</p>
<p>“Clifton called my mother. And she’s flying here. Tomorrow. To be a co-producer.”</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him. “Why would she do that? She’s...famous.”</p>
<p>“No, she’s washed-up, and she’s bored, and knowing my dad, he told her this would be a nice break from the court drama with Eli. So. Yes. You’ll be meeting my mother tomorrow. So we might want to, um…” He trails off, eyes drifting to Patrick’s lips. “Make today count.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” says Patrick, nodding, too sincere. </p>
<p>David smirks and leans to kiss him. Then the door opens and Ray beams at them. </p>
<p>“I wanted to let you both know that I’m making soup. Chicken noodle! Any takers?”</p>
<p>“Wow, no,” says Patrick.</p>
<p>Ray nods. “Door open or closed?”</p>
<p>Patrick lifts his brows a hair, not sure what he did to deserve this. “Closed.”</p>
<p>Ray nods, closing it. David looks at Patrick in wrathful disbelief. </p>
<p>“Okay,” says Patrick, grabbing his laptop. “Give me a minute…”</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Getting a hotel room.”</p>
<p>“You’re what?”</p>
<p>“I’m serious,” says Patrick -- and he is. He pulls up Priceline and browses a while. “Bryant Park alright? Do we need a view? Nope. $150. Done. Want to pack a bag?”</p>
<p>David laughs, almost blushing, and shakes his head. He surges into a kiss, clearly stunned, and squeezes Patrick’s arms. </p>
<p>“I do, actually…”</p>
<p>“We’ll stop by your place.”</p>
<p>“Mm.” David nods. “I’ll bring some...specialty items.”</p>
<p>Patrick hops up, throwing a few things into an old hiking pack, and David smiles softly at him as they exit his room, hand-in-hand. They dodge Ray, then hurry back to David’s place. David directs him into a nearby cafe for some coffee and tea and rejoins him after twenty minutes, a sleek black bag slung over his shoulder. Patrick hands him his usual drink and they take hands again, headed for the nearest subway station. </p>
<p>“Just so you know,” David murmurs as they go through the turnstile, “it’s been so long since I got laid that all I could find were strawberry condoms. And no, I didn’t buy those, Stevie did, and yes, I <em> did </em> have to ask her for them, and no, she wasn’t polite about it.” </p>
<p>“Love strawberry,” Patrick murmurs, pocketing his MetroCard.</p>
<p>“Mm, so do I, except by <em>strawberry </em>they really mean <em>vague rubber berry flavor with a chalky aftertaste. </em>”</p>
<p>“You seem to know a lot about condoms you didn’t buy.”</p>
<p>David hums, tangling their fingers as they descend the stairs to the platform. “No, see, I went to a party once where we were blindfolded and we had to guess which flavor was on which…” He trails off, realizing what he’s saying. “Mm. Which flavor was on which dick. And now you know that about me.”</p>
<p>“Who’s we in that scenario?”</p>
<p>“I was, briefly, an honorary member of Phi Kappa Psi at USC.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “Okay, yeah, that. That tracks.”</p>
<p>“We were going to play that game where you make out with someone and guess what candy’s in their mouth? But Melanie -- actual tyrant -- decided that was too PG.” David glances at him with a shy smirk. “If you’re curious, the worst flavor was bubblegum.”</p>
<p>“Who pitched that?” asks Patrick. “Like, who’s in product development at <em> Trojan </em>going...yeah, I know. <em> Bubblegum</em>.”</p>
<p>“Um, a psychopath. Banana was also <em>not </em>great. Surprisingly, neither was chocolate!”</p>
<p>Patrick nods and looks at him. “I’m just glad you had such a rewarding college experience without ever attending college--”</p>
<p>David pushes him and laughs. He laughs too, relieved that joke landed, and they step onto the train together. David texts Stevie that he won’t be home tonight, then cajoles Patrick into emailing his professor to get out of class.</p>
<p>“You <em>will </em>be in bed all day,” David murmurs, watching him write the email, hugging him from the side. “You’re not sick, but it’s not <em> really </em> a lie…”</p>
<p>Patrick eyes him. “I’ve never done this in my life.”</p>
<p>“Well,” says David, nuzzling into him, biting his earlobe, “there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”</p>
<p>Patrick shivers. “David.”</p>
<p>“Mm, or you could be honest...sorry professor, I can’t come to class because I’m having marathon sex with my new boyfriend…” </p>
<p>“David?” Patrick murmurs, gently moving his hand from his groin. “We’re on the subway. You can wait two minutes.”</p>
<p>David whines. “<em>Can </em> I though?</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Yes.” He shakes his head and finishes the email, then turns to nudge David’s temple with his nose. “There.”</p>
<p>“What did you say?” asks David.</p>
<p>“Oh, that I’m having marathon sex with m--”</p>
<p>David interrupts with a laugh, then kisses Patrick hard. Patrick laughs too, but nudges him away, too shy to make out on the subway. David replies with the tiniest nod, respecting this, and takes his hands with a small smile.</p>
<p>Patrick takes a breath, heart rapping against his ribs. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. Not because of David, just because this is new. Last night was tipsy and spontaneous, but right now, he knows exactly why they’re going to that hotel and he isn’t sure he’s ready. What if he’s bad at this? Sure, David said he wasn’t, but that was a handjob...familiar territory after touching himself for the last twenty years.</p>
<p>David thumbs his palm. “Patrick?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking about what I said before. About taking it slow. Maybe I still want to do that.”</p>
<p>“Um.” David lifts his brows a touch. “Last night was not taking it slow.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I thought. All we did is…”</p>
<p>David nods, amused but patient. “Mhm. I’ve had lots of relationships where that’s all my partner and I ever did.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Patrick murmurs, surprised. “I thought you’d want...more than that.”</p>
<p>“I just want you,” says David, very soft. “It doesn’t matter to me what we do. It’s not about that. It’s about you.”</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him. Sometimes David says something so loving, so perfectly reassuring, that he stops breathing. He knows what David thinks of himself -- that he’s overstrung, unworthy, better off alone -- and he’s sure it’s because no one has ever looked deeper, or saw his heart for what it actually is. Well, fuck everyone else. If they couldn’t see the truth about David, that’s their loss. The truth is his now.</p>
<p>He nods, spellbound, and leans to kiss David. David smiles on his lips for the briefest breath, then melts and kisses him with the softness and sincerity he’d expect on a silver anniversary; his fingers clench a little in David’s sweater and David breathes in, as lost and found as he is, and for a moment they stare at each other in stunned, shared realization. <em> This is right. This is precious. This is ours and no one can take it away. </em></p>
<p>The ecstasy and easy banter fade in an instant to something deeper. Something permanent and fucking galactic. Patrick’s not stupid enough to assume this is forever, not so blind that he expects that. But he’s not stupid enough to think this is forgettable either. No, he’ll think about David for the rest of his life.</p>
<p>The train slows and they kiss again, then take hands and exit to the platform. They emerge on 42nd Street and Patrick leans his head back, taking in the skyscrapers. Then he glances at David and grins, thumbing his wrist as they turn toward the hotel. David laughs and Patrick swears he’s blushing, as captivated as he is. </p>
<p>They slide on the snow together, cutting across a small park, and jog the last few steps to the hotel. The lobby is nicer than it looked online, sleek and warm, with a sumptuous pastry case. David drifts toward this, apparently impressed.</p>
<p>“Ooh, my God…” </p>
<p>He steals a muffin and pops his brows at Patrick as he takes a bite. Patrick chuckles and shakes his head, then heads to the front desk to check in. David explores for a few minutes, then joins him, hugging him from behind.</p>
<p>“If you tell them we’re on our honeymoon they’ll upgrade our room.”</p>
<p>“Yeah David, they’re going to think a room booked on Priceline twenty minutes ago is for a honeymoon…”</p>
<p>“You could try,” David murmurs. “And if you don’t, I will.”</p>
<p>“What do you want? Rose petals?”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Massage oil. Champagne. All-inclusive tickets to Greece…”</p>
<p>Patrick chuckles, moving up in the line. “Bet they have those lying around.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure they do,” David agrees. </p>
<p>Then he slides his knuckles along Patrick’s wrist and takes his hand. He shoots him a smirk, removes one of his rings, and puts it on Patrick’s fourth finger. </p>
<p>“Okay, David? I’m getting concerned about your criminal tendencies.”</p>
<p>“So am I.”</p>
<p>“And this doesn’t look like a wedding ring.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” says David, mere acknowledgment, squeezing his ass.</p>
<p>Patrick glances at him, almost laughing, then shakes his head and takes out his wallet. </p>
<p>“What made you this way?” he murmurs as he gets his ID out.</p>
<p>“Childhood trauma,” David says, wrapping his arms around him. </p>
<p>“Ah,” says Patrick, sliding his ID and card to the receptionist. “It should be under Patrick Brewer.” </p>
<p>David smirks. “So should I--”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at him again. David raises his brows, undeterred, and hugs him a bit closer. Then they glance at the receptionist, who offers them two keycards. </p>
<p>“Enjoying the city so far?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Well, we would be, we’re on our honeymoon,” says David, “but our hotel canceled on us so we booked this one last minute.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that! We do offer a couple’s package if you’re interested!”</p>
<p>David gasps. “If it involves champagne, we’re <em> definitely </em>interested!”</p>
<p>They walk away a moment later with a room upgrade, a bottle of French champagne, and a bag of complimentary muffins. </p>
<p>Patrick looks at David, impressed. “How did you do that?”</p>
<p>David beams, relishing his success, and flicks the <em> 8 </em> to life on the elevator panel. “I am just <em> that </em> good.” </p>
<p>They lean on each other as the elevator shoots to the eighth floor, then amble down the hall to their room, 804. Patrick’s shaky again, buzzing and overheated, but David’s relaxed, almost melting into him, hands all over him as he unlocks the door.</p>
<p>He laughs as David kisses the shell of his ear, struggling with him through the door -- he’s not making this easy, so grabby they almost fall -- and then he turns to kiss him, electric and overjoyed, kicking the door shut. His nerves evaporate the way they did last night and he grins on David’s mouth, drifting, suddenly soft. David bumps his nose on his, impatient but gentle, then lifts his sweater over his head. They kiss for a moment, slow and deep, fading into each other in the winter light. </p>
<p>Then David slides his hand up Patrick’s chest, eyes flickering open. “Champagne?” </p>
<p>Patrick nods, breaking away to find glasses and draw the curtains. David joins him by the window, glances at him with a quick, devilish smirk, then pops the cork out of the bottle. It zings across the room and the champagne bubbles over David’s fist. Patrick hurries to catch the overflow in a glass and they toast, nuzzling each other.</p>
<p>It’s Monday morning and they’re drinking fancy champagne, half-undressed, sweaty and shivering, so in love they’re dizzy. </p>
<p>“Mm happy...one day anniversary,” David says, drinking.</p>
<p>“I thought we were on our honeymoon,” jokes Patrick, then smiles and returns David’s ring.</p>
<p>David laughs and adjusts it on his pinkie. Then he glances down, flushed, and Patrick wonders if he’s thinking the same thing -- that this could easily be their honeymoon, that their feelings are that deep. David hums and tips his head back with sunny, overbright eyes.</p>
<p>Patrick smiles. “What?”</p>
<p>David breathes out, then looks at him, delicate and deliberate. He shakes his head and leans into the softest kiss they’ve ever shared. Patrick inhales, startled and swept away, and smiles on his mouth. Then they drift onto the bed, sipping champagne as they sink, staring at each other. Patrick tugs David in for another kiss. David sets his glass aside so Patrick can take his sweater over his head, tug his pants off, toss them away...</p>
<p>He’s soft in Patrick’s gaze, shy in a stray stripe of light.</p>
<p>Patrick’s eyes fall from his hair to his lips to his collarbone, drawing a constellation with his gaze, as hypnotized by David as he is by the night sky. He gets why people die for this. David makes a tiny, curious noise, watching Patrick as his fingers drift over his arms. Patrick pauses, suspended, and David touches their noses together. They stay still for a breath, kiss again, and reach for their glasses.</p>
<p>Then David gets up, going for the bottle of champagne, and Patrick stares at him. David, naked, glowing in the sun. David, naked, in front of him. Perfect swirling muscles, a tiny birthmark above his ass, skin like liquid gold. Patrick’s hand drifts automatically to his cock as he stares at David, pumping it, eyes trailing between his legs. David’s cock was one thing last night. It’s another thing in the daylight, juicy and bouncing slightly with every step...</p>
<p>“Mm, no you don’t,” says David, pulling Patrick’s hand up. “That’s for me…”</p>
<p>Patrick’s too gone to worry about how much he likes being bossed around.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, barely audible.</p>
<p>David sips some champagne, watching him as his hand drifts, desperate. He almost touches himself again, just to see what David would do if he did. He’s not sure what happened to his cautious, calculated self, because right now, he wants David to fuck him so past his limit that he passes out. So much for taking it slow. </p>
<p>“David,” he mutters. </p>
<p>He wants to blow him. Has to blow him. Wants to kiss him with his cum still on his lips.</p>
<p>David drinks his champagne, unhurried, smirking. Patrick sits up. He lifts his gaze, eyes bright and blown, then shifts off the bed to his knees. He takes David’s cock past his lips, sudden and soft, and David’s breath hitches. So does his, only briefly. Then he moans and sinks deeper. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but David doesn’t seem to notice, because he groans and thrusts into Patrick’s mouth. </p>
<p>Patrick coughs, almost gagging, faltering from oxygen deprivation. Fuck it. He opens his mouth wider, jaw popping, and grips David closer by his ass. David lets out a very soft, very surprised <em>what the fuck</em>, then pulls on Patrick’s hair, hard enough to hurt. Patrick moans.</p>
<p>“Patrick--”</p>
<p>He’d tease David the way David teased him last night, but he doesn’t have the self-control; he melts closer, stunned by the velvety slickness of David’s cock, slipping his hands up his thighs and over his ass. David makes a squeaky, desperate noise, thrusting again, glass tilting. Patrick sinks over him, covered in champagne from David’s careless grip, and David draws a shaky, gasping breath. Patrick slows slightly, pulling back, his tongue stringing a strand of spit. Then he takes David into his mouth again, over and over, as deep as he can. David trembles and laughs through a groan, then moans from his throat, greedy and gone and--</p>
<p>He slams into Patrick’s mouth and Patrick coughs, pulling back as David comes all over his face. He licks his bottom lip, staring up at David, and David’s knees nearly buckle. Then he swipes his cum off Patrick’s lips and drops to his knees beside him.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” David breathes, swaying. He pants, shaking his head, and thumbs a droplet of champagne from Patrick’s temple. “Fuck…” He swallows. “Shower?”</p>
<p>David has a dark, decisive look in his eyes. Patrick nods, drifting into a messy kiss, and David pulls him up. They stumble into the bathroom and under a torrent of hot water, better than any apartment shower, grumbling in pleasure as they lean on the pearly tiles. David trails his fingers down Patrick’s chest, swirls them around one hip, then takes his length in his hand. Patrick’s mouth falters on David’s, slightly open, and he bucks into him. Then David slides his other hand over Patrick’s ass, thumb slipping between his cheeks. Patrick flatlines, vision turning bright white, and lets out a strangled sound, lips crushed against David’s. David tilts his head, kissing him more gently.</p>
<p>“Okay?” David murmurs, massaging him there.</p>
<p>Patrick nods, nearly whining, hips twitching. David hums, pleased, and kneels to blow him while his fingers flick and tease. Patrick dips his head back, hot water pounding over his chest, and slips his fingers through David’s drenched hair. His mouth is stupid perfect, soft-rough, and the way he takes him in and out of his lips is almost worshipful…</p>
<p>“Davi--” His voice breaks off when David pushes his thumb deeper. He opens his mouth, genuinely stunned, as David tucks under his legs, rimming him while he strokes his cock, too soft, too slow. “Da...David…”</p>
<p>David spreads his cheeks wider, tongue darting. Patrick chokes, crying out, muffled and moaning, gripping the shower curtain for support...</p>
<p>
  <em> Crack. </em>
</p>
<p>The curtain falls, along with the rod. Patrick slips, falling on David, and the curtain piles over them like a tent. Then the faucet whines, clearly broken, and water shoots out of it at an angle. Patrick holds his breath, staring, so embarrassed he’s sick. But David laughs. He laughs so hard he throws his head back.</p>
<p>“Oh my God!”</p>
<p>Patrick balks. “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Yes! Yes, c’mere, are you alright?”</p>
<p>Patrick manages a small laugh, shifting closer, then groans in pain. That bang was his elbow hitting the faucet, and his elbow got the worst of it.</p>
<p>“Might have broken my elbow.”</p>
<p>“You broke your elbow?!”</p>
<p><em> “Can </em> you break an elbow?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know!”</p>
<p>“Ow -- ow, David, I think--”</p>
<p>“Okay, up you go, okay honey…”</p>
<p>David tosses the shower curtain off of them and guides him out of the shower, back to bed. Patrick grits his teeth, trying to stretch his arm, and David kneels on the bed by him.</p>
<p>“Should I take you to a doctor?” </p>
<p>Patrick wants to shake his head, but he’s pretty sure he broke something. If he didn’t, he underestimated how bad a sprain can be, and he’s as familiar with sprains as he is with small-town pizza.</p>
<p>“Maybe?” he says, apologetic.</p>
<p>David covers his face and nods, trying not to smirk. Patrick manages a tiny laugh, then winces, holding his arm closer.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Two hours, three x-rays, one cast, and several medical puns later….</p>
<p>“So I...I actually put you in the ER,” says David, eating some cafeteria fries out of a bag, walking alongside Patrick as they return to the hotel. It’s dark now, snowing again, and Patrick is drifty and dreamy on the opioid du jour. “Like. Can I brag about that?”</p>
<p>“David, look at that...car…” Patrick murmurs, spellbound by a taxi. He gasps. “Bees have feet.”</p>
<p>David laughs. “You are <em> so </em>high.”</p>
<p>“Yeah...aw, David, the...I love you, why <em> are </em> trees?”</p>
<p>“Okay, going to ignore you just said <em> I love you </em> for the first time, and trees just <em> are </em> Patrick.”</p>
<p>“They <em> are</em>.” Patrick leans on him, sleepy like a toddler. “I do love you though. Like. Love you. Like. The way a tree loves the sky--” He breaks off, pointing at a guy in a Raptors jersey. “OLE OLE OLE!”</p>
<p>“OLE OLE OLE!” the guy shouts back. </p>
<p>They high-five as they pass. David stares. </p>
<p>“Okay, what…” He closes his eyes, deciding against the question. It’s clearly sports-related. “Never mind. Can I feed you? I feel like I should feed you.”</p>
<p>“I’m not a...baby chicken -- David? David, I said I’d call my mom.”</p>
<p>David pops his brows, tickled by this. “Oh, you are <em> absolutely </em> not doing that.”</p>
<p>“Okay but you remind me of her.”</p>
<p>“My God.”</p>
<p>“No like. You’d get along. And I want to tell her about you because I love you.”</p>
<p>David stops them in the middle of the sidewalk, taking Patrick’s face in his hands. “You <em> have </em> to stop saying that.”</p>
<p>“I’ll do anything you ask me to, David,” he replies, earnest.</p>
<p>David gives him a stern look before he releases him. He’s exasperated, too in love, bursting like a fucking Christmas cracker. His boyfriend is a million miles beyond acceptable fuckability when <em>all </em>he wanted was his cock in his mouth again. No, he had to break his elbow, and the hospital had to give him what was apparently a horse tranquilizer -- </p>
<p>His phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, but he knows the country code. God. When did Patrick have time to give his mom this number?</p>
<p>He answers, eyeing Patrick. “Hi, Marcy…”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank God,” she sighs. “I called Patrick but his phone is off and he never forgets to call. Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>David must have murdered someone in a past life. Like, pummeled someone with a blunt object, Cain and Abel style, to deserve this<em>. </em></p>
<p>“Mm. So, he broke his elbow, and the doctors gave him some <em> very </em> strong--”</p>
<p>“Mom? Hi Mom! David, it’s my mom!”</p>
<p>“--so sorry,” David continues. “I’m taking him home.”</p>
<p>“He broke his elbow?”</p>
<p>“Yes, he, um, slipped in the shower.” </p>
<p>“Only because--”</p>
<p>David puts his arm around Patrick’s head, wedging it against his side so he can’t speak. Patrick giggles, stumbling, and David holds him up with a roll of his eyes.</p>
<p>“Because?” prompts Marcy.</p>
<p>David inhales so his tone stays appropriate. “Oh, because of a...demolition nearby...the whole apartment shook...can we call you tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Patrick gasps and points at a stroller. “LOOK DAVID A BABY--”</p>
<p>“Is he okay?” Marcy asks, clearly concerned.</p>
<p>“Mhm, yes--”</p>
<p>“Well, is someone staying with him?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am--”</p>
<p>“Oh, bless you.” She sighs. “My God, sometimes I wish he would just date <em> you </em>…”</p>
<p>David laughs because the alternative is throwing himself in front of a moving car. “Wouldn’t that be nice!”</p>
<p>Patrick tugs on him like a kid in a line at Disney. “David. David. What if avocados...were...<em> small</em>?”</p>
<p>Forget murder. David must have done something even worse in his past life. He must have started a pyramid scheme. Bought a Peloton. Unironically quoted <em> Die Hard</em>.</p>
<p>“What did he say?” murmurs Marcy.</p>
<p>Patrick leans close. “David broke my elbow!”</p>
<p>“No! <em> You </em> broke your elbow.”</p>
<p>“Welllll…you helped! Hey, mom?”</p>
<p>David looks at him in warning. He doesn’t know how to silently communicate how wrong it would be to come out right now, high as all hell, and that confession seems like it’s on the tip of Patrick’s tongue. He shakes his head, praying Patrick gets it. </p>
<p>Patrick nods, then says, “David’s telling me to stop talking before I say something dumb.”</p>
<p>“That might be a good idea, honey,” says Marcy.</p>
<p>“But I wasn’t going to say anything dumb --” He nearly slips on the ice, steadying himself on David. “Oh, fuck--”</p>
<p>“Patrick! Jesus, just!” David gives him the phone and grabs him by his shoulders to steer him, apologizing to the elderly couple they just ran off the sidewalk. “Left foot, right foot, it’s not that difficult!”</p>
<p>“He’s yelling at me!” Patrick tattles to his mom.</p>
<p>“I’m not yelling at you, you’re just -- can you walk like a human being? What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“I’m <em> skiing</em>, David, obviously…”</p>
<p>David takes the phone back in time to hear Marcy sigh. </p>
<p>“Did he really slip in the shower?” she asks in a motherly tone. “Or is that the story he came up with? I wouldn’t be disappointed if you’ve been partying, you know, he could use a little more of that in his life frankly!”</p>
<p>“He actually slipped in the shower.”</p>
<p>“Well, thank goodness someone was there…” She trails off, calling to someone in the background. “No, Clint, it’s fine! Yes, he’s fine, just a broken elbow!”</p>
<p>Apparently Patrick put his parents through so many injuries and baseball mishaps that they’re indifferent about it now. Patrick giggles again, moving his boots through the slush, then throws his head back to look at David.</p>
<p>“David? David, I want breakfast.”</p>
<p>“I have to go,” David tells Marcy. “I’ll make sure he gets home safely, and if he doesn’t, it’s because I killed him.”</p>
<p>“I don’t wanna go hooome--”</p>
<p>“Mhm, see, <em> this</em>? This is why I don’t want children.”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at him with moony eyes. “But you’d be such a good dad, David, I love you--”</p>
<p>“Patrick, we talked about I love you, and you said you’d stop.”</p>
<p>Patrick smirks. “What if I don’t?”</p>
<p>That’s all David needs -- Patrick to reveal the sassy, subby side of his personality on a phone call with his mom. </p>
<p>“Patrick, listen to David!” says Marcy. “He’s trying to help you! I’m sure he’d rather be spending his night differently!”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know exactly what David wants to be doing right now--”</p>
<p>“Patrick.”</p>
<p>“--I’m definitely messing up his plans with his boyfriend--”</p>
<p>Maybe David was Vlad the Impaler in his last life. Maybe he burnt Rome to the ground. </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s alright,” he breathes. “My boyfriend is on my last nerve right now.”</p>
<p>“Aw,” says Patrick, leaning into him. “I think he’s trying <em> very </em> hard, David…”</p>
<p>“I think...he’s going to regret <em> several </em> things he said tonight…”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs, snuggling into him, skidding on the ice again. Then he lifts his face, kisses the side of David’s mouth, and all-but shouts, “David! David, can we go to--”</p>
<p>“My God, inside voice, you are <em> right </em> next to me!”</p>
<p>“--can we go to that sushi place? I’ll be good!”</p>
<p>“No, you’re going to bed--”</p>
<p>“Booooooo!”</p>
<p>Marcy sighs again. “I hope this isn’t putting you out too much, David. And I hope it isn’t making anything worse with your boyfriend, you know, with you staying overnight at someone else’s place…”</p>
<p>“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” says Patrick. “He’s used to David being out all night--”</p>
<p>“Okay, Patrick? That makes me sound like a hooker.”</p>
<p>Patrick beams. “You’d be a very successful one.”</p>
<p>Marcy laughs, surprised. “Patrick!”</p>
<p>“You’re so handsome, David, you’re like a...pomegranate.”</p>
<p>“No idea how I should feel about that.”</p>
<p>“I’d like, definitely fuck--”</p>
<p>“PATRICK.”</p>
<p>“--over humanity for you.”</p>
<p>“<em>What </em> are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“Isn’t that what Eve did?”</p>
<p>“Okay, that was an apple, and I’m not sure if comparing me to the forbidden fruit is appropriate.”</p>
<p>“It was a pomegranate, David!”</p>
<p>“It so wasn’t!”</p>
<p>“David? David, if you fail your midterm, you can always be a model. I’ll like. I’ll be your agent. We should take out an insurance policy on your legs because they’re like, really nice. They’re so nice, David--”</p>
<p>“My word,” says Marcy. “I haven’t heard you talk about someone like this since we watched <em> She’s All That </em>.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” David cuts in, anxious to avoid Patrick’s inevitable rambling about Freddie Prinze Jr. “I was more of an <em> I Know What You Did Last Summer </em> fan myself.”</p>
<p>Patrick skips ahead of him, singing, “Only because you wanted to fuck JLH!”</p>
<p>“I still do! Who doesn’t!?” David shouts, adding to Marcy, “I have to go, he got away from me -- Patrick! <em> Patrick</em>! You’re going the wrong way!”</p>
<p>He swings himself around a parking sign. “I <em> think </em> I know my way around the city, David--”</p>
<p>He falls off the curb. David shakes his head, unsympathetic, and rushes up to him.</p>
<p>“Okay, say goodbye to your mom--”</p>
<p>Patrick grins, sprawled on a drift like a drunkard. “Bye Mom!”</p>
<p>“I am <em>so </em>sorry,” David adds, hanging up. He pockets his phone and yanks Patrick up, careful of his elbow, then puts him in a headlock and hails a cab. “I hope, for your sake, you don’t remember any of this.”</p>
<p>“I wanted to walk!” he complains.</p>
<p>“I know, and we did, but you’re acting like a drunk toddler and I am <em> not </em> in the mood to talk you out of a public intoxication charge!”</p>
<p>Patrick falters, suddenly resembling a sad, apologetic fawn. “Are you mad at me?”</p>
<p>“No,” David sighs. If he’s honest, he’s still a bit shaken by Patrick’s last <em> I love you </em>and he’s probably not acting very warm. “No, c’mere honey…” A taxi pulls up and helps Patrick in, then sits by him and tells the driver the address. Patrick snuggles into him, getting sleepy. David kisses his temple and adds in a murmur, “You’re wrong about <em> She’s All That </em>being superior to <em> I Know What You Did</em>. Just. Incorrect. Unacceptable.”</p>
<p>“You’re just biased,” says Patrick, self-assured. He hugs David closer as the taxi speeds down 44th. “And it’s so sad, David, they all die…”</p>
<p>“It’s a slasher movie, Patrick!” </p>
<p>“Still,” Patrick mumbles, yawning.</p>
<p>David shakes his head, amused and affectionate, and leans against Patrick’s. They stay like this, finally quiet, until the taxi pulls up to the hotel.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>An hour later, they’re curled up in bed, eating sesame noodles while <em> I Know What You Did Last Summer </em>plays in the background. Patrick has his head on David’s chest and he’s stringing individual noodles from bowl to mouth, mumbling about the movie, his mom, the hospital, Cabaret, unicorns. He’s tried to get it on with David at least five times, and David’s gently pushed away every kiss, insisting he’s too stoned. </p>
<p>David pins his straying hand down for the sixth time, rolling his eyes over a sip of leftover champagne, and Patrick groans.</p>
<p>“David...David I just want...just a little…”</p>
<p>David pats his leg. “As soon as you’re sober…”</p>
<p>“You’re...boring,” Patrick yawns, snuggling closer. “David? David, can we--”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“--can we <em>talk </em>about sex? Because I have questions.”</p>
<p>“My God.” David huffs. “Yes, we can <em> talk </em> about sex…”</p>
<p>Patrick nuzzles his face into David’s side while David strokes his hairline.</p>
<p>“I just...I wanna know what you like...so I can...do that,” murmurs Patrick. “What do you like?” He sets his chin on his shoulder. “Do you like different things with a guy? Will -- what if you miss sleeping with women?”</p>
<p>Patrick’s going to make him give a pansexuality TedTalk right now, isn’t he?</p>
<p>“Mm, so...you want to know what I like? What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Just what you <em> like</em>, David, like...what’s your favorite thing?”</p>
<p>“My favorite thing in bed?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, earnest, fascinated.</p>
<p>David turns down the movie, tone warm and patient as he murmurs, “Okay. That depends on the person, and on how I’m feeling, and about a million other things...”</p>
<p>“I just wanna know if it’s different. For you. With guys. I’m just. I’m curious.”</p>
<p>“Um, it is different, because my favorite thing with guys is -- usually -- a blowjob--”</p>
<p>“Mmph you’re so fucking good at that--”</p>
<p>David moves Patrick’s hand off his groin, eyeing him. </p>
<p>“David, you’re so good at that, was I good at that?”</p>
<p>David softens at him and says, “Everything good with you, because it’s you…”</p>
<p>Patrick inhales, moved, then moans and shifts to kiss him deeply. David nudges him away.</p>
<p>“Right,” Patrick says, nodding. “No sexy times. Nooo sex for me--”</p>
<p>David fights a smirk. “<em>So</em>. Yes. Blowjobs. Getting and giving.” He pauses. “But I like giving more. Just.” He groans, fingers twitching in pleasure as he gestures. “<em>Love </em> making a guy come in my mouth. I <em> also </em> like getting fucked.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Patrick breathes. “I thought you might...you’d be the opposite.”</p>
<p>“I like that too, I just like bottoming a little more…”</p>
<p>“What will I like?” Patrick murmurs, adding, “What is that like? Like, does that hurt?”</p>
<p>David watches him, suddenly amused by his circumstances. He’s in a hotel room with his boyfriend, who’s acting like a druggie Coachella zombie, about to explain the nuances of sex and sexuality like some revolutionary professor in 1935. </p>
<p>“No,” he says, measured. “Not if you do it right. Which is actually <em>quite </em>time-consuming. So. I almost never do that with hookups...maybe a buttplug…”</p>
<p>“Wow,” says Patrick, like David’s explaining gravity or the big bang.</p>
<p>David snorts. “<em>Wow</em>. Well, I’m glad you’re impressed--”</p>
<p>“How does it not, like, go<em> all </em> the way in?”</p>
<p>“Oh my God. Okay. They’re designed not to, Patrick.”</p>
<p>Patrick taps his temple, nodding. “Smart.”</p>
<p>David laughs. “Mm. Very.”</p>
<p>“So you like that?” asks Patrick, rubbing a hand over his side.</p>
<p>If David’s honest, talking about this is turning him on. A lot. It’s also strangely comforting.</p>
<p>“Mhm,” he murmurs, blushing, watching Patrick carefully. </p>
<p>“What else?” asks Patrick.</p>
<p>Patrick’s asking genuinely. He wants to know, because he wants David to feel good, and David’s stunned by that, a little emotional. Okay, <em> very </em>emotional, but it seems wrong to tear up while talking about buttplugs.</p>
<p>“Mm, I like…” He pauses, not sure how much of this Patrick can handle; then, remembering how unlikely it is he’ll remember any of this, he goes on. “I like it when someone is...” He searches for the right words, heart pounding. Other than Stevie, only one person knows any of this about him, and he wasn’t exactly responsible with the information. David settles himself with a breath. “Bossy. And a little rough. Okay, more than a little, but not..not the sex itself…just the foreplay.” He presses his lips together, playful now. “If you ever want to make me lose my mind, just tell me what to do…”</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him, eyes blown. “I like that too.”</p>
<p>“Mhm.” David glances at him, tempted to ask what else he likes -- but that’s not fair, not when he can’t act on any of the answers. “Well, we’ll just have to boss each other around then, hm?”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs and nods, stuck on him. “So what else?”</p>
<p>“Not to be a big fat stereotype, but...<em> love </em>three-ways. Like. A little too much, I almost did that with Stevie<em>, </em>just imagine…”</p>
<p>“Oh, do you -- do you like her?”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, no. No. But she does seem like she’d be…” He raises his brows slightly, thinking about her lips. “Talented.”</p>
<p>Patrick studies him, fingers playing an absent melody on his ribs. “So what do you like with women?”</p>
<p>“Hm.” David cards his hand through Patrick’s hair. “Why do you want to know about that?”</p>
<p>Patrick shrugs. “Cause I...I love how...you’re just so <em>open </em> David. I don’t know. It’s really...It’s beautiful and I’m...well, honestly? I’m sort of...jealous.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” murmurs David. </p>
<p>“Like, you’re so brave--”</p>
<p>David laughs. “No. I’m just. Messy. And indiscriminate.” </p>
<p>“No,” says Patrick, very soft, leaning to kiss him. “No, you aren’t…”</p>
<p>“Okay, um…” He clears his throat, sweating, and tips his head back. “I like...a lot of things...mm, I’ve always liked playing with women’s nipples...because...sometimes you can make them come just from that.” He smirks, eyes dark. “And <em> that’s </em>fun.” </p>
<p>Patrick swallows. “What else?”</p>
<p>David raises his brows. “Well Patrick, tits are very versatile. I like...leaving hickeys all over them. And licking them. And fucking them. And playing with them from behind while...mm, well, playing with one and making her come with my fingers...”</p>
<p>“Keep talking.”</p>
<p>“Why is <em> this </em> turning you on?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s turning <em>you </em>on,” Patrick murmurs, eyes drifting to his lips. “Will you miss all that? If you’re only sleeping with me?”</p>
<p>David softens and shakes his head. “I only want to be with you. You’re enough for me.”</p>
<p>Patrick kisses him back, then tilts his head, tonguing his bottom lip with a tiny moan. David pulls back, barely able to break the kiss, and wills his hands away from Patrick’s abs.</p>
<p>“Mmkay, you -- you can’t kiss me like that right now…”</p>
<p>Patrick grumbles, grabbing at him. “But David. David, I <em> want </em> to kiss you.”</p>
<p>“Yes Patrick. I know that.”</p>
<p>Patrick hums, disappointed, still curious. “So do you sleep with more women or…?”</p>
<p>“No, more men,” says David. “And sometimes I sleep with people who aren’t men <em> or </em> women.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, sincere and studious. “Yeah, I just...I don’t think about these things. Before I moved here I’d never even met anyone who’s…”</p>
<p>“Okay, I’m sure you have like, a <em> cousin </em> or something.”</p>
<p><em>"I’m </em> the cousin, David.”</p>
<p>David replies with a tiny, fond chuckle. “Mm. Okay. But no. You’ve met dozens of us, even if you didn’t know…”</p>
<p>“So you like that better?” Patrick murmurs after a moment. “Sleeping with guys?”</p>
<p>David smiles and shrugs. “No. I just like it more often.” He glances at Patrick, soft. “Are you wondering something about yourself, or…?”</p>
<p>“I don’t...I don’t know David,” he slurs, turning over, nesting into the pillows. He links his fingers together, staring at the ceiling. “It wasn’t <em>bad </em>with Rachel. It just wasn’t good. Or comfortable. Or fun. But...I got...got through it so…”</p>
<p>“Okay, I don’t think <em> getting through it </em> makes you bi, or pan, or anything else, but it isn’t up to me how you feel, or who you are, so…”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at him, relaxing a bit. “But I...I should have liked guys before you, right? Why...why is it just you for me?”</p>
<p>David turns, pulling him into a cozy embrace, touching his fingers to his lips. “So, to me, there’s really no such thing as <em>should </em>with any of this...because that implies...there’s a right and a wrong way to <em>be</em>. And I don’t think that’s true. Or fair.” He smiles and thumbs over Patrick’s temple. “You shouldn’t have to justify who you are.”</p>
<p>Patrick stares at him and sniffles. “But don’t...don’t <em> I </em> need to know? I want to be able to say I’m gay and not have everyone wonder how that could be true if I was…”</p>
<p>“Oh, how can you be gay if you didn’t figure that out when you were still in the womb and exclusively dated men?”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Yeah. It um. It sounds stupid when you say it like that.”</p>
<p>“It <em>is </em>stupid. And I’d know because I’ve heard it all. How I’m...betraying one sexuality or the other...or lying...or only doing it to pass. No one can shut the fuck up. Like<em>, are you gay but you wanted a fancier word for it? Don’t you just mean bi? Do you say you’re pan so you get to sleep around? </em>Honestly Patrick? You’re one of the only guys I’ve dated who hasn’t said something awful.”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles sadly. “There’s still time.”</p>
<p>“No, no, you’ll never say anything like that because you don’t make assumptions about people and I love that about you.” He pauses, sniffling. “I love that.”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows, slowly swirling his fingers on the side of David’s face. He’s about to speak, but one of the doomed teenagers screams on screen.</p>
<p>“Okay, I’m…” David wrinkles his nose. “I’m realizing this wasn’t the best movie choice for tonight.”</p>
<p>“No, leave it on, it’s like a...cold shower…”</p>
<p>“Mm, I thought Freddie turned you on…”</p>
<p>“No, like...this is what I mean,” Patrick mumbles. “I know guys are attractive. But you’re the only guy I’ve actually wanted to sleep with.”</p>
<p>“Do you think women are attractive?”</p>
<p>Patrick squirms a bit. “Well, yeah, they’re beautiful, and soft, and they smell really nice…” He looks at David, very serious. “Not as nice as you do.”</p>
<p>David sips some champagne. “Obviously.”</p>
<p>“But I never want to sleep with them. So what does that make me?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” David whispers, soothing him with a touch. “I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters. It just matters...you’re here with me, and you’re happy with me...and you feel safe here. And if you don’t--”</p>
<p>“I do. God, I do.”</p>
<p>David smiles. “Okay. Good. So.” He sniffles again and swallows the urge to cry. “So whoever you are...and however you feel...you matter as much as everyone else. And if...if you want to…” He laughs. “If you want to be the grand marshall next June, you have...every right to do that.”</p>
<p>“Not sure about the grand marshall. But.” Patrick’s lips dip into a tiny, loving smirk. “I’ll be your Emcee.”</p>
<p>David holds his breath, one eyebrow up. “Are you sober enough to tell me that?”</p>
<p>“Nope. But I want to. I know I want to, David.”</p>
<p>David chuckles and kisses him gently. “Okay. But now that you’ve said that, you can’t back out, even if you forget you said it.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “I won’t forget.”</p>
<p>“Mm, are you sure? Do you remember telling me I should be a model?”</p>
<p>“No.” Then he brightens, consumed by the idea anew. “Aw, but David! David, you should be--” </p>
<p>David laughs and shakes his head, turning over. He grabs their takeout off the bedside table, scrunches the pillows together, and sits up straighter. He pats the bed beside him and Patrick snuggles closer, accepting another dish of noodles, and David turns the movie back up. Patrick kisses his cheek and pulls a blanket over both of them, smiling.</p>
<p>They watch for a few minutes, playing with each other’s fingers.</p>
<p>Then Patrick looks up. “David?”</p>
<p>“Mm?” asks David, distracted by a Sarah Michelle Geller’s crop top. He sucks a noodle into his mouth. “Hm honey?”</p>
<p>Patrick turns his chin so he looks at him. “Did I say I love you?”</p>
<p>David freezes. “Yes. You did. Like, <em> so </em>many times. Too many.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “Okay. Good.”</p>
<p>David watches him, laughing. “Okay good?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods again, nuzzling against him, then returns his gaze to the movie. “Yep. Just wanted to make sure I said that tonight.”</p>
<p>David shakes his head, smiling, almost crying, annoyed and ecstatic. And then, only because Patrick will forget in two minutes, he replies, “I love you too."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Patrick on painkillers is my spirit animal. And yes, he forgets (almost) everything by morning. And no I don't consider this the real ily scene...there will be a whole chapter for that ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter has a lot going on 😂 ...this is what happens when I write piecemeal over weeks lol! I'll TRY to update more regularly. It was really dumb to start this fic in the middle of my MBA. Anyhoo...</p>
<p>1. Some of David's behavior in this chapter is...morally questionable lmao. Hopefully no one's offended.</p>
<p>2. I have no idea if there's a restaurant called Caranova in NYC. If there is, that's purely coincidence.</p>
<p>3. I don't speak French and neither does anyone I know so if my translations are totally wrong, sorry!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick wakes up to find David looking at him over the rim of a coffee cup. He blinks, hungover on whatever the hospital gave him, and David’s lips twitch against the urge to smirk.</p>
<p>“Good morning, sunshine…”</p>
<p>Patrick glances at the clock. It’s 12:05. </p>
<p>“Oh, shoot, David…” He sits up, too groggy. He knows he broke his elbow, and he remembers some scattered confessions, but most of last night is a total blur. He winces in the light. “Didn’t mean to sleep in…”</p>
<p>“Mhm, it’s too bad you did,” says David, “because I had plans for you…"</p>
<p>David’s fully dressed, hair done, bag packed, breakfast waiting in a white paper bag.</p>
<p>“Late check-out?” says Patrick, sheepish.</p>
<p>“This <em> is </em> the late check-out,” David replies, adding, “you are a very clingy sleeper.”</p>
<p>All Patrick can do is blush and chuckle and shake his head and hope he didn’t irreparably embarrass himself last night. He knows he did. Luckily David’s more understanding than he seems, sweet actually, somehow patient. </p>
<p>“How much do you remember?” David murmurs, reading his gaze.</p>
<p>“Not a lot,” Patrick admits.</p>
<p>“Mhm, <em> that’s </em>probably for the best,” David says, finishing his coffee. He sets the empty mug aside and gets up. “Rehearsal’s in twenty.”</p>
<p>Patrick sits up, tossing the covers off. Then he stares at David. He’s wearing a leather jacket, sharp and sleek, midnight black. It looks so good it hurts.</p>
<p>“Oh, you like?” asks David, like he didn’t pick that jacket specifically to fuck with him.</p>
<p>“Mm.” Patrick makes himself breathe in. “Rehearsal’s when?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later, they’re in the auditorium beside Stevie. She’s looking at Patrick’s elbow with an evil smile, waiting to pounce. They ignore her, holding hands, reassuring each other about Moira's impending arrival. They look like long-time husbands to every observer, including Stevie, who’s bursting.</p>
<p>She slides a bit closer. “<em>So</em>.”</p>
<p>David jerks his gaze in her direction. “Do you need something?”</p>
<p>She raises her brows, acting affronted. “Patrick broke his elbow. And your mom’s almost here. And we need to recast the Emcee. Yet you’re relaxed.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I took one of Patrick’s meds.”</p>
<p>Patrick pauses around a sip of coffee, glancing at him. This is unfortunately plausible. “Better not have.”</p>
<p>David smirks at his tone, turned on but totally undeterred. He looks back at Stevie. </p>
<p>“We already recast him.”</p>
<p>Patrick leans around David. “Yeah, hi.”</p>
<p>“Wow,” says Stevie. “I guess sleeping with the art director has its perks--”</p>
<p>David simpers at her. “Eat glass, Stevie."</p>
<p>Then a door flies open behind them. Heels click to the sound of fluttering papers and a woman shrieks like she foresaw her own death.</p>
<p>“Clifton! Clifton, <em> no</em>, you will not do this to my bebe!”</p>
<p>Patrick turns to see who spoke, sure it’s David’s mom. Who else would be wearing a silver wig and a dress with lace overlay to resemble chain maille? Who else would be adjusting cat-eye glasses over a script, mouth open in horror?</p>
<p>“Clifton!” she yells again, then stops cold, looking at Stevie. She gasps. “Are you Sally? Oh, you must be, with this…” She tilts her head and swirls her fingers at Stevie’s face. “Tragic visage!”</p>
<p>David looks at her with raised brows. “<em>Hi</em>.”</p>
<p>Moira looks over and gasps like she doesn’t recognize him. “David! Oh, you’re so painfully pale! What has New York done to you?” Then she looks at Patrick. “Who is this?”</p>
<p>Patrick shakes her hand. “Hi, nice to meet you, Mrs. Rose...”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s Moira to you! If you’re an actor, that is!”</p>
<p>“Yes, he’s our new Emcee,” says David, “and my boyfriend.”</p>
<p>“Now isn’t <em>that </em>a dangerous game!” says Moira, caught between admiration and disdain. “Dating a cast member I may well have to fire!”</p>
<p>“Okay, no, he’s very good,” David says, hands on Patrick, defensive.</p>
<p>“In that case,” says Moira, “I hope you two maintain your professionalism when you break up! Now, where is Clifton?”</p>
<p>“Late,” says Stevie, while David says, “Drunk.”</p>
<p>Moira nods, taking off her glasses. She clamps her lips on the end of the stem as she studies Patrick. “What happened here?” she asks, gesturing at his arm. “That may prove a hazard during <em> Money</em>!” </p>
<p>“Yes, what <em>did </em>happen?” asks Stevie.</p>
<p>“If you must know,” David says delicately, “he got hit by a baseball.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, eyes a little too wide, and Moira clicks her teeth.</p>
<p>“Oh dear. No. <em> No! </em> You musn’t offer your precious body to the capricious cruelties of team sports!” She sighs and hits David with her script. “You keep a closer eye on him! If we lose another Emcee, we may as well call ourselves <em> La Strada</em>!”</p>
<p>“Okay, I don’t know what that means,” says David. “Why are you here? Did Eli--”</p>
<p>Moira shrieks. “Don’t say the E word!”</p>
<p>“Okay,” sighs David. “How are you affording this?”</p>
<p>“A friend of mine offered me refuge, in exchange for my help on a venturesome little photo memoir!”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“I believe you know him. Sebastien Raine?”</p>
<p>David lets out a sharp, breathy laugh, while Stevie and Patrick stare at each other.</p>
<p>“You believe I know him,” David repeats. “You <em> believe I know him</em>.”</p>
<p>Moira gestures with her script, exasperated and confused.</p>
<p>“<em> Maybe </em>that’s because I dated him!” says David. “Twice! For years!”</p>
<p>Moira scoffs, vindicated. “I believe I said that!”</p>
<p>“Oh my God--”</p>
<p>Moira interrupts, shouting, “Clifton!” as the doors open behind them. David swears, turning, and shares a glance with Stevie and Patrick.</p>
<p>“Photo memoir,” says Stevie.</p>
<p>“Mm, try humiliating riches-to-rags tell-all,” says David.</p>
<p>“She’s staying <em>with </em>him?” adds Stevie.</p>
<p>“His apartment is 8000 square feet,” David replies. “The humidor is bigger than our place.”</p>
<p>She nods and Patrick glances across the theatre at Moira as she argues with Clifton. Then he looks at David, wondering if his parents heard a word he said when he was growing up, if he hoped they’d notice his self-destructive patterns or care enough to stop them…</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck,” David hisses, glancing at his watch. He grabs Patrick’s face and kisses him, then trots toward the exit. “Accounting exam! Bye!”</p>
<p>“Did he study for that?” Stevie murmurs.</p>
<p>“Nope,” Patrick says, reeling from the kiss.</p>
<p>“So…”</p>
<p>“Yeah, he’s not passing that. I asked him what LIFO was last week and he said it was a diet pill.”</p>
<p>“What <em> is </em> LIFO?”</p>
<p>“Last-in-first-out, it’s an inventory accounting system used in the States that lowers taxes for a business if--”</p>
<p>“It blows my mind that David’s into you.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Me too.”</p>
<p>She smiles slightly, eyeing him, then nudges him and nods at the front row so they can wait out Moira’s fight with Clifton. They sit down and Stevie uncaps her coffee to drink the foam, putting her feet on a box of props. </p>
<p>“How did you really break your elbow?”</p>
<p>“We were in the shower.”</p>
<p>"Mm. Doing what?”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“Shower sex is dumb,” she mumbles, tipping her head back to catch the last of her drink. “Did David laugh when you fell?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so,” says Patrick, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t remember actually.”</p>
<p>She frowns. “Why not?”</p>
<p>“Apparently pain meds don’t agree with me. I think I called my mom. And asked David what he does with women.”</p>
<p>Stevie opens her mouth, delighted, then snorts. “Oh my God. What did he say?”</p>
<p>Patrick frowns, trying to recall. “Not sure. Did you two hook up?”</p>
<p>“So, we <em> almost </em> did, but we called it off because we live together.”</p>
<p>“But you would have?”</p>
<p>Stevie gestures with her empty cup. “Have you seen him?”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Yeah, fair.” Then he glances at her. “Will he be okay?”</p>
<p>She crosses her legs and swipes an elastic off her wrist to put her hair up. “I think so. He probably freaked out last week because he didn’t know he could count on you. And now he knows, because you didn’t bail.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, thumbing the lid of his coffee. Then he smiles too. “I really like him.” </p>
<p>She glances away, shaking her head. “Yeah. He better not fuck this one up.”</p>
<p>He chuckles, about to reply, but Moira steps in front of them, bracelets ajingle.</p>
<p> “Hello children! It seems that David, in his moonstruck haze, recast the Emcee without talking to Clifton?”</p>
<p>“Sounds like David,” says Patrick, while Stevie says, “Probably.”</p>
<p>“Well in that case!” She wiggles her fingers at them to get up. “Clifton is insisting that you two perform <em> Money </em> for him.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “No problem.”</p>
<p>Stevie pops her brows and nods too. “Great.”</p>
<p>Moira brightens at them, smiling with vermillion lips, and turns to rejoin Clifton. Patrick glances at Stevie and she blinks.</p>
<p>“Do you know that choreo or…?” </p>
<p>He shakes his head. “Nope. David was thinking about my voice when he offered me this role, not…” He glances at his legs. “These.”</p>
<p>“No, David was definitely thinking about those,” Stevie mutters.</p>
<p>“David might...not have been thinking with his brain at all when he did this.”</p>
<p>Stevie snorts. “David’s never thinking with his brain.”</p>
<p>“Hope he is today,” says Patrick, mind drifting to the test.</p>
<p>“What happens if he fails that?”</p>
<p>“He’ll fail the class.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Stevie replies, gathering her things. “You know he’s only in school because Sebastian told him he was too stupid to be, right?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “Still down to murder that guy if you are.”</p>
<p>“I can’t picture you murdering a bug, Patrick--”</p>
<p>“Tell that to the spider I squished for David last week.”</p>
<p>“Did you actually squish it or did you say you did and then carry it outside?”</p>
<p>“Carried it outside. Well, tried to. It got away.”</p>
<p>“Which you didn’t tell David.”</p>
<p>“Nope,” he agrees.</p>
<p>She tosses her coffee cup into the nearest bin as they climb the stage. Then she glances at him, kneeling to tighten her laces. She shakes her head.</p>
<p>“I don’t get David sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I love him. But what the fuck.”</p>
<p>Patrick lowers his coffee from his mouth, curious. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Why doesn’t he just drop out?” she asks. “He’s brilliant -- and he knows that -- and he’s not exactly impressed by credentials so I don’t know why he wants them so much…especially now, it’s not like he has something to prove.” She stands up and puts her hands on her hips, pausing, then murmurs, “Not to sound like Grandma Budd, but...pretty sure happiness is the best revenge.”</p>
<p>“David seems like more of a poison my husband’s wine type.”</p>
<p>Stevie nods. “Yes he does.”</p>
<p>They glance up as Moira and Clifton approach. Clifton frowns, pausing above the orchestra. </p>
<p>“What happened to your arm?”</p>
<p>Patrick breathes out, tired of this spiel, and Stevie smirks. The next few hours pass slowly (and painfully -- so much for his doctor’s directions that he relax as much as possible.) Moira calls out different pages and choreographies, exclaiming, raging, gasping...she’s as dramatic as David, maybe worse, and she talks like she swallowed a thesaurus. Patrick and Stevie exchange countless tired glances, out of breath and exasperated as she jumps around the script, calling for fog machines and backup dancers. </p>
<p>She makes them change into their costumes around four, insisting that their street clothes are compromising her vision. </p>
<p>“This is so <em>itchy</em>,” Stevie mumbles, struggling into a black beaded dress.</p>
<p>“This is...complicated,” Patrick replies, examining his suspenders. “Do these go <em> over </em> my nipples or…?”</p>
<p>“No, pretty sure your nipples are the star of the show -- oh <em> fuck</em>. David!”</p>
<p>“What did he do?”</p>
<p>“Picked this dress! Look at this…”</p>
<p>She turns to show him the back, which laces up like a corset. “What’s wrong with him?”</p>
<p>“Who?” someone asks -- David is back, leaning on the doorway to the dressing room with a tiny smirk. </p>
<p>“You,” Stevie mutters.</p>
<p>“Mhm.” He tugs her across the room by her corset strings and starts to lace them, then glances at Patrick. “Do you need help too?”</p>
<p>“No, David, I have two working arms and years of experience with suspenders--”</p>
<p>“You could just perform shirtless, no one would complain--”</p>
<p>“Okay, David, I <em> literally </em>can’t breathe,” Stevie interrupts.</p>
<p>He raises his brows. “Um, deal with it.”</p>
<p>“How did your test go?” she adds.</p>
<p>“Ooh, let’s not,” he replies, letting her go to kiss Patrick hello. </p>
<p>“That bad?” Patrick murmurs.</p>
<p>“Um. Picture a baby deer, stumbling through a field of wolves, and hunters, and--”</p>
<p>“Ah,” says Patrick, kissing him back “Sensing you’re the deer in this analogy.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” David agrees, agonized. He kisses Patrick again and rubs his arm. “How are you feeling?”</p>
<p>“Uh, overmedicated.”</p>
<p>David laughs, then hums, thumbing Patrick’s hip bones. “Mhm, well, you <em> look </em> good--”</p>
<p>Moira shrieks in the distance for David to help her with something. He touches his forehead to Patrick’s, annoyed, and Patrick chuckles.</p>
<p>“Are you losing your mind yet?” David asks.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Stevie says, pulling on some fishnet stockings.</p>
<p>“A little,” Patrick admits.</p>
<p>David kisses him again, fingers twitching on his suspenders; he snaps one gently against Patrick’s chest, eyes him, then walks away. </p>
<p>He adds to Stevie, half-out the door, “I’ll know if you loosen that.”</p>
<p>Stevie glowers at him, and as soon as he’s out of sight, she mumbles, “Unlace this right now.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, on it,” says Patrick.</p>
<p>They exit the dressing room a few minutes later, emerging on stage, and find David sitting by his mother in a spare director’s chair. He glances at Patrick, rolls his eyes, and Moira makes an exuberant note in her script, triple-circling something. </p>
<p>Stevie clears her throat, Moira looks up, then gasps in approval. She puts her hand on David’s arm, patting it as she looks at Stevie and Patrick.</p>
<p>“I must say,” she says, “this role fits your beau like a silk glove! And Stevie, oh! Stevie...a true pearl as Miss Bowles!” She clicks her teeth and looks at her son, surprised. “David!”</p>
<p>He leans back, pained. “Mm. Is this your version of a compliment?”</p>
<p>“You’ve done well!” she continues, tilting her head. “Oh.” She smiles and takes off her glasses. “I <em> did </em> miss you--”</p>
<p>“Then maybe you would consider staying with me and not my deranged ex.”</p>
<p>“David! I could never burden you like that!”</p>
<p>He looks away and rolls his eyes again, arms crossed. She replaces her glasses with a bigger pair, squinting at the script, and makes another note. </p>
<p>“Now!” she calls. “Take it from the top of page 72…”</p>
<p>She works Stevie and Patrick until they’re stumbling into each other out of exhaustion (at which point David yanks her script away and yells at her about his boyfriend’s broken elbow.) She scoffs but relents, then shakes Clifton awake. He startles, typically sloshed, and David looks at him like he’s something icky on the bottom of his shoe.</p>
<p>“Dinner!” Moira cries. “My treat--”</p>
<p>“With whose money?” David mumbles.</p>
<p>“--how about <em> Caranova</em>?” She sighs, fantasizing, then pulls out her phone. “Yes, I’ll call ahead…”</p>
<p>“<em> I </em> am taking my boyfriend home,” David says, getting up. “Because he’s literally falling down…”</p>
<p>“David! No, you must join us! And Patrick too. And Stevie!”</p>
<p>“I need a bath,” Stevie says flatly.</p>
<p>“I need a nap,” Patrick adds as David reaches him.</p>
<p>David nuzzles him. “Mhm, you need--”</p>
<p>“David!” Moira calls. “I am not dining alone!”</p>
<p>“My God,” he murmurs, taking out his keys. He presses them into Patrick’s hand. “My place. Wait up for me or I’ll wake you up.”</p>
<p>Patrick chuckles, flushed, and leans to kiss him. “Okay."</p>
<p>David smiles, kissing him again, then glances at Stevie. “<em> You </em> didn’t break your elbow, so you’re coming with me.”</p>
<p>She considers. “Are you buying?”</p>
<p>“Um, I’m assuming Clifton is buying because everything at <em> Caranova </em> is a billion dollars.”</p>
<p>She grabs her bag. “Fine.”</p>
<p>David kisses Patrick again, lingering, and squeezes his wrist. Patrick smiles, stretching into another quick kiss, then sends David away with a push. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“We’re in and we’re out,” Stevie says. “One appetizer, one drink, and then we’re done.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” David murmurs, “I don’t think you understand how places <em> this </em> fancy work…”</p>
<p>They’re hanging back as Moira and Clifton ascend the steps to the restaurant. It’s blustery, snowing softly, and Stevie’s still wearing her Kit Kat Klub costume. David’s dressed elegantly too, a leather jacket and a cream-colored cashmere sweater; he wore this to sexually frustrate his boyfriend all day, not because he expected to end up at a Michelin-starred café with his mother and his idiotic director…</p>
<p>“Um, it’s prix fix?” he continues to Stevie. “So we’re stuck here for nine courses.”</p>
<p>She blinks at him. “I’m stuck in this dress for nine courses?”</p>
<p>“Okay, Stevie? I don’t want to be here either.”</p>
<p>“Your tits aren’t crammed into a corset, David.”</p>
<p>“It’s not my fault you kept your costume on!”</p>
<p>“What did you want me to wear? A flannel shirt with pit stains?”</p>
<p>He tips his head back in utter annoyance. “Oh my God. Just get through this with me.”</p>
<p>“I--” She stops, looking at the top of the stairs. “Wait. Is that…?”</p>
<p>He follows her gaze and sees Sebastian emerge from the foyer, kissing each of Moira’s cheeks Italian-style.</p>
<p>“Mhm. Yes. Yes it is.”</p>
<p>Stevie blinks. “Okay. I can see why you went for that.”</p>
<p>“Yes, he’s <em>devastatingly </em>handsome. Let’s get this over with.”</p>
<p>“You’re going?”</p>
<p>“Um, if I cry one more time over that man, I’m throwing myself off a bridge. So yes. I’m going. And you’re coming with me and making sure I’m a cold-hearted bitch all night.”</p>
<p>“You don’t need any help with that, David...”</p>
<p>He smirks slightly, eyeing her, then takes her arm and walks up the steps. Moira’s in the middle of introducing Clifton and Sebastian.</p>
<p>“Oh look,” says David softly. “Just who I wanted to spend my evening with. <em> Two </em> alcoholics.”</p>
<p>“David,” Sebastian says. “This is a surprise. And who’s this...small-town Liv Tyler?”</p>
<p>“Wow,” says Stevie. “I’m David’s roommate.” </p>
<p>Sebastien clicks his tongue, disappointed. “But where is your boyfriend? I expected you to bring him to hide behind...not that he’s very big...”</p>
<p>David passes Sebastian, murmuring, “He’s bigger than you.”</p>
<p>Stevie snorts, going inside with him. Moira and Clifton trail them and Sebastien steps closer, taking the lead. </p>
<p>“My usual table,” he tells the maître d'.</p>
<p>“Oh, his <em>usual </em>table,” says Stevie.</p>
<p>David adjusts his jacket. “Mm, let the douchebaggery begin…”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re okay?” she checks, voice soft.</p>
<p>“Yes,” David breathes. “It’s been months, and I have a boyfriend I’m...very much in love with so...I’m over this, tonight.”</p>
<p>“Okay, did you just say you’re <em> in love </em> with Patrick, because--”</p>
<p>“Mm, yes, it surprised me too.”</p>
<p>She almost laughs. “Oh my God. David.”</p>
<p>David’s lips twitch against a smile. “And...he doesn’t remember...but he did say he loves me last night. Like, ten times. So.”</p>
<p>Stevie smiles, clearly moved, but replies, “Where did he find the time?”</p>
<p>“Oh, between telling his mother I would make a good hooker and asking me what I like in bed,” says David. “It was very romantic.”</p>
<p>Stevie looks away to hide a grin. “Mm.” Then she nudges him, offers the best-friend-nod-of-approval, and sniffles. “I’m happy for you.”</p>
<p>“Obviously he has to say that again, sober, but I…” He breathes in. “I know he meant it.”</p>
<p>Stevie looks at him. “And you didn’t say it back, did you?”</p>
<p>He makes a face. “So...the terrifying thing...is that I did.”</p>
<p>She stops short of the dining room, staring at him. “You told him you love him?”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Yes.”</p>
<p>“And you <em> were </em> sober?”</p>
<p>David nods, shocked by his own behavior. “Mhm yes. Yes I was.”</p>
<p>Stevie huffs, amazed. She starts to reply, but Moira swoops up on them from behind. </p>
<p>“David! You are walking slower than a loris on a beach!”</p>
<p>He flinches in annoyance. “What is a loris?”</p>
<p>Moira smiles. “A lovely arboreal primate, of course!”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Stevie jokes. “Get your primates straight, David.”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately,” he says, feigning distress, “I left my zoology degree in my other pants.”</p>
<p>She grins. They take a seat at a white-clothed table, covered in sparkling champagne flutes and bone china. Sebastien sits across from them, casual and composed, gesturing at a waitress for a bottle of vodka.</p>
<p>“Mm,” says David, leaning close to Stevie. “So, he’ll have two drinks, then go to the bathroom to do a line, and then he’ll come back with a hot take on Annie Leibowitz, or communism, and then he’ll have <em>several </em>more drinks and he’ll say something completely unforgivable. And then he’ll try to apologize, but by then he’ll be too drunk so he’ll ask if I want to come home with him.”</p>
<p>“Right,” says Stevie, nodding. “At which point do I stab him with my fork?”</p>
<p>“The earlier the better,” David replies, pausing as the maître d' approaches their table. “Oh, I forgot the part where he treats the waitstaff like trash…”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” Sebastien says on cue. “I believe I asked for a drink.”</p>
<p>The maître d' scurries away. “Yes sir, right away sir…”</p>
<p>“Okay, part of me wants Patrick here,” says Stevie. “Because he’d put Sebastien in his place <em> real </em> quick.”</p>
<p>“Oh, he would,” David agrees, smirking. “Is it wrong to fantasize about him punching Sebastien out?”</p>
<p>“No. That’s hot. Too bad Patrick would never do that.”</p>
<p>“<em> Someone </em> needs to.”</p>
<p>The maître d' returns with vodka, a tiny crystal glass, and a silver tray of cigarettes. Sebastien selects one and ignites it with a skull-shaped lighter, looking directly at David. He studies him for a moment, then smirks and looks away to pour a drink. </p>
<p>David knows that look. It’s a threat, the kind of look that says <em>try me and you’ll be sorry</em>. He used to drop his gaze whenever Sebastien looked at him like that, but he smiles tonight, unmoved, and accepts a glass of merlot from the maître d'.</p>
<p>Stevie squints. “He’s just...going to smoke inside?” </p>
<p>“Mm. He knows the chef. Why do you think we’re the only ones here?”</p>
<p>The maître d' clears his throat to explain the menu. Most of it’s in French, so Stevie and Clifton hang on David to translate. Sebastien doesn’t speak French, but he’s too proud -- or bored-- to bother with translations. </p>
<p>“And for dessert, you have an option of...gâteau aux pistaches, or mousse de mangue…”</p>
<p>David hesitates. Sebastien is allergic to pistachios. Not <em>deathly </em>allergic, but…</p>
<p>“Oh, le gâteau aux pistaches...des pistaches supplémentaires pour lui, s’il vous plaît…” He nods at Sebastien and smiles, adding to the maître d', “Merci!” <em> Oh, the pistachio cake...extra pistachios for him, please. Thanks! </em></p>
<p>Stevie presses her lips together. “What did you do?”</p>
<p>“You’ll see,” he murmurs. He smiles at Sebastien. “I think you’ll enjoy dessert.”</p>
<p>Sebastien’s eyes darken. “I think I will too.”</p>
<p>“Oh...that wasn’t innuendo. I would fuck a toad before I would fuck you again.”</p>
<p>The maître d' coughs. Stevie’s eyes widen in amusement and Moira sighs.</p>
<p>“I apologize,” Sebastien says to the maître d'. “I forgot what a barbarian my boyfriend can be.”</p>
<p>David simpers. “I’m not your boyfriend.”</p>
<p>“My, this is going well!” Moira murmurs, gesturing at the maître d' for more wine.</p>
<p>Sebastien breathes out a spiral of smoke, then turns to Moira. They start to discuss their photo memoir and Clifton listens in, nursing a huge glass of scotch. David leans back, glancing at Stevie, and she finishes a text.</p>
<p>“I’m telling Patrick you spoke French to the waiter and he’s missing out.”</p>
<p>David smirks. “I’ll speak French for him later.”</p>
<p>“Speaking of what you’re doing to your boyfriend later,” she says, “you two are way too loud.”</p>
<p>David pouts. “Oh, are we too loud? How inconsiderate of us.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, go to his place…”</p>
<p>“Um, <em> his </em> roommate walked in on us yesterday to ask if we wanted soup, so.” </p>
<p>His phone buzzes and he glances at it, reading the exchange on the groupchat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 7:07: David’s speaking French to our waiter. Thought you should know. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 7:07: Also. Sebastian’s here. And David’s handling it like a bad motherfucker. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:08: What? Is he okay? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>David smiles faintly, thumbing Patrick’s name on the screen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:08: I’m okay. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:08: Okay. Let me know if you need me and I’m there. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:08: you’re sweet </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“David, texting is rather declasse at dinner, don’t you think?” Moira asks.</p>
<p>David ignores this, smiling again as a text comes in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:08: Need anything from the store? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:08: I need you to take a nap because you’re not getting any sleep after I get home </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 7:08: This is the groupchat, guys. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:09: we’re all adults here </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 7:09: I draw the line at dick pics </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:09: you said that just in time </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>David laughs, forgetting he’s not alone, and feels an unfriendly gaze. He looks up to meet Sebastien’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Jealous?” he murmurs.</p>
<p>“Of you?” drawls Sebastien.</p>
<p>“No,” says David, smirking. “Of him.”</p>
<p>Sebastien doesn’t answer and the maître d' returns with the first course: oysters and pearls. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Patrick leaves the theatre after packing up and tracking down a cold bottle of water. He smiles to himself as he nabs David’s forgotten scarf, then heads home for a fresh change of clothes. </p>
<p>He knows David’s stronger than he seems, but he also knows he wears armor, tells himself he’s fine until he isn’t. It’s beyond Patrick how Moira decided to stay with Sebastian -- he wants to confront her about it, actually -- but that’s not the best approach with his boyfriend’s mom, so he’s hatching a new plan.</p>
<p>He steps into the lobby of his apartment and unlocks the door to his place, hoping Ray’s home. He finds him assembling a green screen while bubblegum pop plays in the background, a couple of boxes of takeout on the kitchen table.</p>
<p>“Patrick! You keep disappearing!”</p>
<p>Patrick lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “Uh. Yeah, David’s...keeping me busy -- speaking of that, do you have anything for rent around here?”</p>
<p>“A retail space, but I’m flexible!”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. Finding an alternative place for Moira is worth it, even if he has to pay for it.</p>
<p>“I know this is short notice, but could you show it to me? Tonight?”</p>
<p>Ray clasps his hands. “Absolutely!”</p>
<p>Patrick nods again, then turns into his room to pack his books -- the weather’s turning so he might get stuck at David’s for the school week. God, let him get stuck at David’s...blaming the snow as they ignore every responsibility…</p>
<p>“Patrick?” </p>
<p>Ray’s looking in, keys in his hand. Patrick zips his bag and nods, following him out.</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of moving!”</p>
<p>“No, this is for David’s mom.”</p>
<p>“Oh, already meeting the parents I see! Always a good sign!” Ray turns down a side street in a small shopping district. “Speaking of parents! I’m visiting mine in San Diego this week.”</p>
<p>“All week?” asks Patrick, too eager. He pulls back. “I mean, that’s nice, um…”</p>
<p>“Until Saturday, yes! I would have told you yesterday but you and David left so suddenly!”</p>
<p>“Mm.” Patrick’s already taken his phone out to text David, distracted. “Right...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:27: We have my place to ourselves for a week. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:28: fucking finally </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:28: Or should you say...finally fucking? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:28: my god...there’s my painkiller nympho </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:28: I’m sober :( </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:28: stay that way so we can do everything we talked about last night </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:29: What DID we talk about? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:29: how much I love your cock in my mouth </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:29: k bye the second course is here </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:29: (Maine lobster and royal ossetra caviar...I would fuck this dish) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:29: no, I would marry it </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:29: sensing they have a good wine menu </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He chuckles as a picture loads and almost walks into a lamp post. David took a selfie of him and Stevie, pleasantly tipsy, both stunning under the warm light of a chandelier. Maybe it’s Stevie’s dress, or David’s smirk, but they look a bit like Bonnie and Clyde. David drew an arrow toward an empty bottle of red, captioned <em>moving to this vineyard you’re invited. </em></p>
<p>Patrick grins, heart jumping, thinking to himself...<em> that’s my man. </em>What a silly, intoxicating thought. He smiles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 7:29: you’re gorgeous </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 7:29: aw! home soon I promise </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick pockets his phone, already missing David, and walks five more blustery blocks to an old brownstone. It’s dilapidated from winter, broken a bit around the steps...but it’s sweet, historic, the kind of place that only needs the right eye.</p>
<p>And Patrick knows just the guy. He smiles slightly as Ray unlocks the door.</p>
<p>“Now,” Ray says. “there <em> was </em> a raccoon problem.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you can never say that to David...”</p>
<p>“Noted!” Ray says brightly, shouldering the door open. </p>
<p>Patrick steps inside. The shelves are empty except for a few strewn sales flyers, tomato soup, and a stack of 2014 calendars.</p>
<p>“Was this a grocery store or…?”</p>
<p>“A general store!” says Ray. “It was quite successful until the owners invested in Herbalife!”</p>
<p>“Ah.” Patrick picks up a stray jar of <em> Gel Time 100% Moist Liquid</em>. He recalls his mom using this to dissolve rust off old pans. “Yeah, their product selection wasn’t great either…”</p>
<p>“I think you will be most interested in the loft,” says Ray, pointing at the ceiling.</p>
<p>Patrick follows him up some creaky stairs to a small and cozy loft -- exposed brick, a fireplace, wood floors that need a touch of wax. The bathroom doesn’t have a door, and the kitchen’s a joke, but it’s homey. Somehow right. He breathes in, picturing a future here with David. Maybe if he likes the place...maybe if he runs with his consignment idea...maybe after Moira returns to LA…</p>
<p>He tries to stop himself, but he asks, “How much?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Back at the cafe, Stevie and David are finishing up a charcoal-grilled wagyu steak, chatting as they sip wine. Sebastien is photographing Moira as she poses with different foods, and Clifton is asleep on the floor beside the table.</p>
<p>“Beautiful, beautiful,” Sebastien is muttering while Moira eats a plum. “Yes, the spiritual journey of nourishment and death…”</p>
<p>Stevie looks at David. “If I have to listen to one more minute of this…”</p>
<p>“The rich tapestry of loss and gain…” David says mockingly. “The penumbra of our doubts, immortalized in a simple plum…”</p>
<p>Stevie snorts and crunches on a piece of fried shrimp. She’s eating with her hands, no consideration for fine dining rules, her feet in David’s lap. He glances at his phone, hoping for another text, but Patrick must be busy with something...</p>
<p> Sebastien pauses to adjust his camera, lights another cigarette, and gets up. “Excuse me a moment, nature calls…”</p>
<p>David leans his head back as he passes. “Is that what you’re calling cocaine now?”</p>
<p>Sebastian glares at him and he pops his brows. </p>
<p>“I hope you overdose.”</p>
<p>“Go to hell, David.”</p>
<p>David laughs. “Already there!”</p>
<p>Stevie looks at Sebastien as he disappears into the bathroom. “How much coke can he <em> do </em>?”</p>
<p>“You’d be surprised,” says David, taking advantage of his absence to scoot closer to his mother. “<em> So </em>.” He’s finally drunk enough to deal with this. “Describe this photo memoir to me.”</p>
<p>“Finally, some interest!” sighs Moira. “It is a delightful reflection on the many cycles and spirals in the life of one Moira Rose!”</p>
<p>“Mm. So is he supplying the photos <em> and </em> the captions?”</p>
<p>She considers, spearing a pearl onion with her fork. “Think of it as an illustrated biography!”</p>
<p>“Yes, but who’s writing it?”</p>
<p>She glances up. “We’re collaborating.”</p>
<p>David hugs himself, leaning a little closer. “Mm. Mhm. And you’re confident that he’ll portray you in a flattering light.”</p>
<p>“Why, of course!” she says, adding some brandy to her glass. “We <em> are </em> lifelong friends.”</p>
<p>“Okay, I introduced you,” says David, “and that wasn’t even five years ago, so...lifelong might be a bit generous.”</p>
<p>“David, relax! It’s just like the project he did for you…”</p>
<p>He holds still. “What project is that?”</p>
<p>“The photo exhibition!” she says.</p>
<p>“<em> Oh</em>, so you think he had my permission to do that.”</p>
<p>She takes a sip of brandy. “What else?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” says David, actually protective. “I know he's very handsome and very convincing, but he ruins people's lives. He finds people at their most vulnerable, then exploits them and calls it art.”</p>
<p>“I'm not vulnerable, David!” says Moira stridently. “I'm...brave!”</p>
<p>“Oh, he loves that word,” David murmurs.</p>
<p>“David! This project could be very good for my career!”</p>
<p>“No, this project will end your career. How much have you already told him? About our family? Our money?”</p>
<p>Moira hesitates. “He promised he would be discreet!”</p>
<p>“Okay. He published naked pictures of me. And I'm sensing you didn't read any of those captions, because if you did and you're still working with him, you're a masochist, an idiot, or both.”</p>
<p>“I don't recall those pictures being appropriate for a mother's eyes!”</p>
<p>“Oh, they weren’t! I’ll keep this short. You cannot trust him.”</p>
<p>Moira falters, about to speak, but Sebastien returns. He glances at David, suspicious, and David returns to his seat to sip some wine.</p>
<p>“Sebastien,” Moira says, cautious. “Sebastien, what's this I'm hearing that you didn't have David's permission for that daring little exposition you published last summer?”</p>
<p>“It's nothing half the city hadn't already seen,” Sebastien says, sitting down.</p>
<p>David finishes his wine. “You really need to get more creative with your insults if all you can call me is a whore.”</p>
<p>Stevie nibbles on a piece of gourmet cheese, eyes wide as she watches. Sebastien drains his sixth drink, then leans close to David.</p>
<p>“Let me ask you something. Do you think your boyfriend will stay with you if he finds out everything you’ve done?”</p>
<p>“I think you know nothing about my boyfriend, or me. You know what else I think? I think you’re a vapid, parasitic hack, whose only talent is taking advantage of people who have less than you do."</p>
<p>“I do miss your vocabulary, David. But I assure you.” He lowers his voice. “The only parasite here is your mother. Who’s paying for this dinner? For the penthouse?” He tilts his head, brows raised. “It sounds familiar, doesn’t it? I seem to recall <em> another </em> Rose throwing himself at me the minute he lost everything...”</p>
<p>“You say that like I wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to you.”</p>
<p>Sebastien laughs. Then he leans back and gestures at David like he has an audience. “Take notes, everyone! David thinks he’s the best thing that ever happened to me! Him!” He scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re a joke.”</p>
<p>The maître d' clears his throat. “Gentlemen. Dessert is served.”</p>
<p>“Oh, thank you,” David says, passing a plate of pistachio cake to Sebastian. He smiles, leaning back as he sips more wine. “Say whatever you want about me, Sebastien. But if you hurt my mother or Stevie or, God help you, Patrick...” He raises his brows as Sebastien takes a bite of cake. “I <em> promise </em> you’ll regret it.”</p>
<p>Sebastien sneers, about to reply. Then his expression changes and he coughs. “What -- what’s in this?”</p>
<p>David smiles. “Pistachios?”</p>
<p>Stevie stares and mumbles, “David. Is he allergic?“</p>
<p>“You -- you did this on purpose!” Sebastien chokes out.</p>
<p>David pouts, unsympathetic. “Oh no…”</p>
<p>Sebastien throws the plate at him. “Get out! Out! Before I call the police!”</p>
<p>David dusts cake crumbs off his jacket. “Mm, what will you say? That you ate pistachios by mistake because you didn’t ask your ex to translate the menu? I’m afraid that’s just not actionable, honey…”</p>
<p>Sebastien doesn’t reply -- he’s too busy coughing. David smirks, getting up with Stevie, and Moira looks on in horrified admiration.</p>
<p>“Enjoy the hives!” David calls, putting an arm around Stevie as they head for the door. </p>
<p>Stevie blinks, stunned, and murmurs, “So. We aren’t good people.”</p>
<p>“Mm, no,” David agrees, stepping outside. “But at least we aren’t boring.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Patrick gets to David’s place after a chilly walk. </p>
<p>He smiles as he takes out David’s key -- he has a feeling that’s his now -- and unlocks the door. He relaxes in the warmth from the apartment, the heat left on high. It’s quiet despite the city below, the air infused with marijuana and cinnamon. He feels instantly safe and sleepy here, like he’s in David’s arms.</p>
<p>He’s just drifted toward the bathroom for a shower when his phone rings. It’s David, so he answers, and hears the telltale sounds of people sloshing through snow.</p>
<p>“You won’t believe what David did,” says Stevie.</p>
<p>“Ugh!” David complains, like she promised not to disclose whatever he did. “Hi. We’re calling because we’re too cold to text.”</p>
<p>“You were right about David being a <em> poison his husband’s wine </em> type--”</p>
<p>“Um, that wasn’t poison--”</p>
<p>“Weeelll--”</p>
<p>“If I wanted to poison him, I would have!”</p>
<p>She pauses. “So. I’m concerned how convincingly you said that”</p>
<p>“Stevie,” he says. “If there is a Hell, I’m already going there for a billion reasons, so what’s a little murder?”</p>
<p>“I wonder if we can be roommates in Hell.”</p>
<p>“Mm. We should fill out an application.”</p>
<p>“We should. Hell fills up quick.”</p>
<p>“Maybe there’s an apartment that overlooks the Lake of Fire.”</p>
<p>“Ooh, or the torture fields.”</p>
<p>“Mm. Yes. Or the--”</p>
<p>Patrick interrupts this drunken, giggly banter to say, “You two good?” </p>
<p>“We’re stopping for fries which is why we’re calling. We’re <em> not </em> calling to tell my new boyfriend what a Slytherin I am.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you’re a secret Hufflepuff,” Stevie says.</p>
<p>“Um, Hufflepuffs don’t commit murder by nut allergy.”</p>
<p>“Really hoping that was an example and not a confession,” says Patrick.</p>
<p>“Okay, it wasn’t <em>murder</em>,” says David. “So, fries, a burger, what do you want?”</p>
<p>“A burger,” Patrick replies, adding, “You...gave someone a nut allergy? On purpose?”</p>
<p>“Just Sebastien. And now I’m wondering...<em> are </em> pistachios nuts?”</p>
<p>Patrick almost laughs. “David!"</p>
<p>“<em>You</em> threatened to murder Sebastien just this morning,” Stevie points out.</p>
<p>“Aw, you did?” asks David. “How would you do it?”</p>
<p>“Uh, not publicly?”</p>
<p>“Mm no see the genius thing is that, had he actually died, no one could blame me. It’s the perfect crime.”</p>
<p>“David.”</p>
<p>David gasps. “Ooh, do you want <em> cheese </em> fries?”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you just eat dinner?”</p>
<p>“Um, mind your business. Attempted murder is hard work…”</p>
<p>“Regular fries,” says Patrick. He’s about to request a milkshake but someone knocks on the door. He frowns. “Uh. Were you guys expecting anyone?”</p>
<p>“Don’t answer it if it’s the police!” says David.</p>
<p>Patrick rubs his face. “David…”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, what if it is?” Stevie whispers.</p>
<p>Another knock. Louder, more insistent. Patrick goes to the door, breathing out, and glances through the peephole. </p>
<p>“Uh,” he says. “No, it’s a woman…” </p>
<p>“Okay, if she’s brunette, 5’ 2”, and wearing red lipstick--”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>David sighs in relief. “Good, one ex is enough for tonight.”</p>
<p>The woman steps closer, obscuring Patrick’s view, and knocks again. “Oh my God! David!”</p>
<p>“But she...knows you,” Patrick tells him.</p>
<p>David whines. “Deal with it please? Thank you. I’ll make it up to you.”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh.” Patrick fights a smile -- why is his boyfriend such a perfect trainwreck? “Get me a milkshake too.”</p>
<p>“Mhm, toodles,” says David.</p>
<p>Patrick laughs and pockets his phone. Then he opens the door and the woman huffs, apparently disappointed to see him. She’s trim and tall, hair flowing in amber waves around her shoulders. She’s gorgeous -- the traffic-stopping kind of gorgeous he associates with old Hollywood -- and she’s absolutely surrounded by luggage. That can’t be a good sign.</p>
<p>“Hi,” she says sharply. “I’ve knocked on, like, a million doors, so <em> please </em> tell me you know where David Rose lives.”</p>
<p>Patrick hesitates. “I -- who are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m his sister!"</p>
<p>“Oh…” Patrick exhales, too surprised to speak. “Ohkay. Yeah, David lives here. Um--”</p>
<p>“Thank God,” she huffs, coming inside, dragging a trunk. “I knew his apartment number ended with a two, but the other numbers got all smudged when my purse fell in the Adriatic--” She gives up on the trunk. “Could you? Thanks so much.”</p>
<p>He pulls the trunk in with his good arm and glances at her as she wanders the apartment. Then he shakes his head, retrieving the rest of her luggage, and locks the door behind him. She sheds her fur coat, tossing it wherever, and spins in a red cocktail dress as she searches the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Is there wine?” she asks.</p>
<p>Patrick notices she has a few telltale mascara tracks over her cheeks. He puts the pieces together and softens. Alexis wouldn’t show up at this apartment if she had any alternative. Something catastrophic probably happened abroad and now she’s here, seeking David instead of her parents.</p>
<p>That says a lot about her. It also says something about David. </p>
<p>“Yeah, here…” </p>
<p>He takes down a glass and gives it to her. She sniffles, hugging it, and offers it up as he pulls some wine from the fridge. She swirls her finger as he pours, indicating he should fill it to the top, then takes a long sip. </p>
<p>“You’re Alexis, right?”</p>
<p>She nods, beaming. “Mm, yes! And you are? Never mind. You must be David’s boyfriend. So cute. I thought he’d like, never date again. I <em> also </em>thought he was lowkey sleeping with his roommate, Steve or someone--” She pauses as she browses the fridge. “Do you have yogurt? I haven’t eaten in literally two days, they don’t serve food on military transport planes, like, rude?”</p>
<p>Patrick points out the yogurt (David’s secret stash, he’ll take the flack later) and excuses himself to use the bathroom. He ducks inside it, calling David, but he doesn’t pick up. He texts a semi-frantic message to him and Stevie. Neither of them write back, apparently distracted by fast food.</p>
<p>He clicks his phone off with a short sigh. Then he exits the bathroom, ducks into David’s room to put on a sweater, and returns to find Alexis on the couch. She’s holding her wine in both hands like a lifeline, staring straight ahead.</p>
<p>“David should be back soon.”</p>
<p>She nods but she doesn’t seem to hear him. </p>
<p>“Are you -- aren’t you cold?”</p>
<p>She nods again. He goes into Stevie’s room, planning on apologizing for this privacy breach later, and grabs the first flannel he can find. He gives it to Alexis and she puts it on, then tucks her legs under her bum and curls up against the armrest. </p>
<p>“So how did you and David meet?” she asks.</p>
<p>Her tone makes it clear that she never asks about other people’s lives. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about her own life right now.</p>
<p>“At school,” says Patrick.</p>
<p>She glances over. “David’s in <em> college </em>?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” says Patrick, smiling at her surprise. “He’s brilliant. Maybe not at math, that’s how we met, I was tutoring him, but…” His smile grows a little warmer. “He is at other things.”</p>
<p>Alexis stares for a minute, then says, “Okay, David, like, <em> exclusively </em>dates assholes so. What’s your dark secret?”</p>
<p>His phone buzzes and he glances at her in apology. “Hang on…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:06: Pleeeeeeease tell me that was a sick joke </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:07: It wasn’t </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:07: Ok people have impersonated Alexis before so I need a pic </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick glances up. “Uh. David doesn’t believe me that you’re here--”</p>
<p>“Where is <em> he </em>?”</p>
<p>“At dinner with your mom.”</p>
<p>Alexis blinks. “Ew, <em> mom </em>is here? Since when?” She rolls her eyes and gets up with a huff, seeking more yogurt. “Why doesn’t anyone <em> tell </em> me things?” She turns. “David wants a picture, doesn’t he? Like, there <em> was </em> this incident in Cabo…”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>She flips her hair over one shoulder and poses. “Well. Go on.”</p>
<p>“This is...weird,” he murmurs, taking a picture.</p>
<p>She trots over to see the picture, leaning over his shoulder. </p>
<p>“Oh!” she says, pleasantly surprised. “I thought my hair would look, like, après-sex and not in a cute way but it <em> is </em> cute!”</p>
<p>“So I can send--”</p>
<p>“Mmh,” she nods, then returns to the kitchen, browsing. </p>
<p>He sends the picture, shaking his head slightly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: fuck everything </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:10: So…? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: that’s her </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 9:10: when were you going to tell me your sister looks like THAT </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 9:10: holy fuck </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stevie Budd, 9:10: we’re feeling gay in this McDonalds tonight </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: don’t let her eat my yogurt </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:10: uh </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: Ugh!!!!!!!!  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: Home in 5. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Patrick Brewer, 9:10: Could you get her some food?? </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: you are an infuriatingly good person </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> David Rose, 9:10: yes. ugh. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Patrick puts his phone down and Alexis returns with more yogurt. She puts her hair into a bun, securing it with a pen she grabs from the coffee table, and Patrick glances at her.</p>
<p>“David’s bringing you food.”</p>
<p>She hums around a bite of yogurt, distracted, and he offers her a blanket. She tucks it over her lap, pulling her spoon slowly out of her mouth, and blinks at the wall.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m sure I will be.”</p>
<p>Patrick thinks back to a conversation he had with David last month. They were lying on stage together, staring at the rafters after rehearsal, talking until midnight while the janitor vacuumed the theater around them.</p>
<p>
  <em> I wouldn’t even know if she died. Isn’t that crazy? </em>
</p>
<p>He looks at Alexis again. She has that distant look in her eyes, the one he sometimes sees in David’s...maybe the high life wasn’t the best thing for them. </p>
<p>“Well...whatever’s going on, you can stay with us,” he says.</p>
<p>She looks over and smiles. Then she boops his nose. “You’re sweet. And if you weren’t dating David, I’d think this is a dishy little meet-cute.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says, nodding. “That’s...flattering.”</p>
<p>She beams and finishes her yogurt, then glances at the door as it opens. David comes in, tired and subdued, and looks at Patrick. Stevie follows, stumbling in her heels, and stops in the doorway to stare at Alexis.</p>
<p>Alexis stares back, mouth slightly open, but David misses this detail, too annoyed.</p>
<p>“Do you <em>own </em>a phone?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Oh my God, it was confiscated, David!” </p>
<p>“Oh, and you’ve never heard of a payphone?”</p>
<p>“I don’t remember your number!”</p>
<p>“Oh my God.” David covers his face, then breathes out hard. “Okay. Why are you here?”</p>
<p>“So, Stavros--”</p>
<p>“Fucking Stavros.”</p>
<p>“Let me finish!”</p>
<p>“Okay, this is a two-bedroom and we already have three people, so--”</p>
<p>“We’re staying at my place,” Patrick reminds him. “So she could have your room, right?”</p>
<p>Stevie nods at David, hugging a McDonald’s bag. </p>
<p>“Keep it in your pants, Stevie--”</p>
<p>“But I’m not wearing pants.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says softly, turning her by her shoulders. “You’re too drunk for this. Go make coffee.”</p>
<p>She nods, mockingly sincere, and marches toward the kitchen. Alexis watches her as she disappears, one eyebrow raised, and David sighs as he hangs his jacket by the door.</p>
<p>“Yes, <em> fine</em>, you can stay in my room but I can’t promise the sheets are clean.”</p>
<p>“Ew, David!”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know you were coming!”</p>
<p>“Ugh!”</p>
<p>“<em>My </em>sheets are clean,” Stevie says, wandering out of the kitchen with a burger in her hand. She offers it to Alexis and adds, “I’m Stevie, by the way.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Stev<em> ie </em>!” says Alexis. “I thought you were a guy.”</p>
<p>Stevie nods. “Mm. Nice flannel.”</p>
<p>Alexis pauses as she unwraps the burger, smirking slightly. “Oh. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Stevie sits by her, reaching into a bag for some fries, and they look at each other a second too long. David, apparently unamused, hauls Patrick off the couch and toward the door.</p>
<p>“So, we’ll be going,” he says.</p>
<p>“What’s the rush?” Stevie says, intentionally obnoxious.</p>
<p>“Um, I just spent four hours with my ex, and I’m starving, and I want, like, a <em> second </em> of alone time with my boyfriend.”</p>
<p>“Oooh, which ex?” asks Alexis, sucking some ketchup off her thumb.</p>
<p>David gestures at her. “What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Asking--”</p>
<p>“No. You’re eating a burger.”</p>
<p>“It’s been a long week, David! God!”</p>
<p>“She’s <em>vegan</em>,” he adds to Patrick.</p>
<p>“That was a phase! Ugh!”</p>
<p>Stevie inches a package of chicken nuggets toward her. She smiles and nabs one, then throws her gaze back at David.</p>
<p>“You could, like, be happy to see me.”</p>
<p>“I’m not happy to see you!”</p>
<p>“David,” Patrick murmurs. “She’s going through something right now…”</p>
<p>David breathes out. “Alexis. I will be happy to see you tomorrow. But tonight, the only person I’m happy to see…” He trails off, grabbing Patrick. “...is him. So. Brunch tomorrow?"</p>
<p>She softens, then smirks and nods. “Totes. Esperanto?”</p>
<p>“Fine,” he says. Then he takes Patrick’s face in his hands and kisses him. “Two seconds, let me pack a bag…”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, sitting on the couch by Stevie and Alexis. He grabs a burger off the coffee table and tears the wrapping off, starving after rehearsal. Stevie leans her head back, dropping a fry into her mouth, and Alexis sips on a milkshake, eyes darting between them.</p>
<p>“What?” Stevie asks eventually, amused.</p>
<p>“Um. You’re just not. David usually doesn’t hang out with people like you.” </p>
<p>Stevie pops a chicken nugget into her mouth, mumbling, “People who aren’t assholes?”</p>
<p>Alexis hesitates, then nods hard. “Yes. Mhm. Yep.”</p>
<p>They all chuckle, tired and cozy, and David returns with a messenger bag, a pair of black boots dangling off the side. Patrick hops up, joining him, and they take hands as they go for the door. David eyes his sister.</p>
<p>“If you eat any more of my yogurt--”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, I won’t!”</p>
<p>He nods, satisfied. Then he opens the door for Patrick and they leave together, walking slowly down the hall.</p>
<p>“Very done with today.”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles, nudging him. Then he pauses, pulling David close, and stretches to kiss him. David’s lips twitch and he chuckles as he pulls away.</p>
<p>“Mm, what was that for?”</p>
<p>“I missed you. And I worried about you all night.”</p>
<p>David nods. “Mhm.” He plays with the shell of Patrick’s ear and kisses him again. “Well, no need, I’m perfectly fine...except now I’m worried that Stevie’s going to seduce my sister…”</p>
<p>“Ah.”</p>
<p>“And I really don’t need that in my life.”</p>
<p>Patrick puts his arms around David’s neck. “Well...instead of thinking about that...think about the fact we have my place for a whole week…”</p>
<p>David groans, nodding, and squeezes Patrick’s waist. “Yes. Yes, my God…” He tugs him toward the exit. “Let’s go…”</p>
<p>“You sure you’re okay?” Patrick asks as they continue outside.</p>
<p>David kisses the side of his head. “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Because…” Patrick hesitates. “Don’t get me wrong, David, I’m -- I’m really proud of you for getting through dinner at all. But what you did is…”</p>
<p>“Morally indefensible?”</p>
<p>“No, fuck that guy,” Patrick says instantly. “It just. It doesn’t make me think you’re over it.”</p>
<p>“Okay, I’d agree with you,” says David, surprising him. “But that wasn’t revenge.”</p>
<p>Patrick glances at him as they pause for an Uber on the curb. “It wasn’t?”</p>
<p>“No,” David says, soft and dangerous. “That was a threat.”</p>
<p>Patrick breathes in, suddenly hot. “Oh.”</p>
<p>“Mm. See, <em> he’s </em>the revenge type. And once I talk my mother out of their project...he’ll be looking for someone to hurt. And that leaves you and Stevie, because he knows he can’t do anything worse to me than what he’s already done except...except hurt one of you. So.”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows, stunned and unsteady. Then he kisses David hard, full of warmth, communicating every unsaid I love you through touch. David makes a tiny, surprised sound, then takes Patrick's face in his hands to kiss him back.</p>
<p>They stay like this until their Uber pulls up, then break apart with a soft, overwhelmed laugh.</p>
<p>“So,” Patrick says as they get in the car. “It's really sweet you care about me that much. But next time maybe…”</p>
<p>“Don't risk arrest?”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>David smiles. “Okay.”</p>
<p>The car peels away from the curb and David leans on Patrick, head tucked under his chin. Patrick squeezes his hand.  He almost tells him about the loft he found, but decides to surprise him with it tomorrow instead. Maybe he'll bring him there with a bottle of champagne and see how he reacts...he might have had Moira in mind, but when he thinks of that place now, he thinks of him and David. They've been dating less than a week...basically a lifetime... now’s clearly the time to make huge financial commitments together. He chuckles at himself. David looks into his eyes, one brow raised.  </p>
<p>“Pretty bold to threaten a guy's life over someone you've been with two days,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>David replies with a gentle smirk. “We've been together more than two days.”</p>
<p>“Three?” Patrick jokes.</p>
<p>“No. I've felt this way about you since the minute I saw you, so...to me, that makes this our two-month anniversary.”</p>
<p>“Oh, so we're counting the time we were dating in our minds?”</p>
<p>David glances down, biting his bottom lip, and fights a smile. He shakes his head and murmurs, “No, I um...I just mean...you mean more than three days to me.”</p>
<p>Patrick smiles and leans into a kiss. “You too.”</p>
<p>David pulls away to nuzzle him, breathing in, and looks into his eyes. “You really don’t remember anything you said last night? Because…”</p>
<p>Patrick hesitates. He does remember one thing, but he put that memory into a locked corner of his mind the second he recalled it.</p>
<p>“I told you I love you,” he says, very quiet.</p>
<p>David exhales. “Yes. Yes you did. But that’s... not what I’m talking about.”</p>
<p>Patrick frowns, confused. “Oh…”</p>
<p>“See. I said it back.”</p>
<p>Patrick takes a breath, hands suddenly tight on his bag. “<em> Oh </em>.”</p>
<p>“Mm.” David looks out the window as the car speeds past a corner park. “So, if you remembered that it would be...it would be easier to say it now.”</p>
<p>Patrick stares, then murmurs, “What if I said it?”</p>
<p>David glances at him, actually shy, and nods. Patrick chuckles, then pulls David into a soft, shaky kiss. David smiles on his mouth, pulling back so their noses touch.</p>
<p>“Well, I love you.”</p>
<p>David laughs. “I love you.” Then he gestures. “And I’m in love with you. I feel there’s an important distinction and I’m...I’m both, so.”</p>
<p>Patrick grins. “Okay. Thanks for clearing that up. I’m also in love with you.”</p>
<p>David nods. “Mhm, glad we’re on the same page.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs and shakes his head. Then he shifts closer, pulling David against him, and kisses him deeply. David hums, fingers catching in Patrick’s shirt, and Patrick pulls back to grin. David laughs again, bumping their noses together. Then they kiss hard, forgetting the city and the snow as it flies past them. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whooooboy haven't updated in so long. Hope you enjoy this longer than usual chapter!</p>
<p>NOTE: I reuploaded this so the images work (hopefully!!) They *should* work since they have static IPs now. Fingers crossed and sorry for the comments that got lost by me reuploading ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“--worst snowstorm to hit the metro area in two decades...with wind gusts up to 50 miles per hour...major power outages are possible…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David and Patrick are listening to the news, cozy in bed under a quilt. They’ve been here since morning, sleeping on and off, saved from brunch by the snowy weather. Ray made it to the airport just in time, leaving them alone, snowed in, perfectly unreachable...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“More nasty weather ahead, with another 8 inches expected this evening…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do expect 8 inches this evening,” David murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sighs at the joke. David grins, rolling on his back, and puts one arm over his head. He glances at Patrick, who leans up, watching him. They both soften and smile, staring at each other until Patrick chuckles and drops his gaze. David smirks, fingers spooling over Patrick’s wrist…he’s so easy to fluster and David adores it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick knows that tone by now. His mouth twitches in appreciation and David shifts, hovering over him, letting his weight down as their lips meet. He doesn’t mind being squished; actually, he really likes being underneath David, which he didn’t expect. There’s something addictive about being so vulnerable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If we do this one more time,” David mumbles, “we’ll beat my personal record…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick drifts in the kiss before answering. “What’s your personal record?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David sounds a little proud, so Patrick makes a point to sound unimpressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The average teenager could beat that, David--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I’m not talking about getting off, I’m talking about getting someone else off, but now I’m not feeling so generous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins. “Oh no.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans into a more playful kiss. David tries not to smile, but fails instantly and laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I think your estimate’s a little high,” Patrick adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, I lost track after round three,” says David. “I may have lost some brain cells, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From the oxygen deprivation?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes it sound like we did something kinkier than we did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another grin. “Do you want to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My God,” David laughs. Then he softens, tugging Patrick into another dreamy kiss, and smiles on his mouth. “No, c’mere…” Another tug. “Just want you…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick would tease him for his sincerity, except he’s in love, so sincerity’s a drug. Especially from David. Especially in bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hums into the kiss, pulling David close, closer, as close as two people can be. Then he smiles and a few words tumble out, unplanned and -- based on David’s inhale -- totally unexpected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want you inside me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words hang in the air. He hears them like he didn’t say them. Like his lizard brain didn’t just make him say that deep, unedited desire out loud. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s clearly pleased. Too pleased. A bit smug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. I’ve never gotten that before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick hesitates. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, no. I’ve just gotten <em>fuck me.</em>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Would it help if I asked like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David nods, playing along. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs and looks away, definitely too shy to say that. David smiles and thumbs over his lips, amused and intrigued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I seem new at this?” Patrick asks, returning his gaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. But not bad at it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you say yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You keep...lingering on details,” David muses, full of affection. “Like you’ve never touched a guy before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. Hate to break it to you, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs. “Mm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t you?” Patrick continues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t I what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The first time you slept with a guy. Didn’t it surprise you how different it feels?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh, the first time I slept with a guy, I was very drunk, and very much focused on not throwing up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The guy didn’t notice you were that drunk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s left dimple grows a bit more noticeable -- a sign he’s about to laugh at Patrick’s faith in humanity. “Yes, Patrick. He took special care to get sober consent in the back of a pitch-black club in the Castro.” He gestures as he reminisces, wrinkling his nose. “He was very...efficient.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that a compliment?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that sound like a compliment?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not for a hookup. Maybe for a carwash.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. He was the express cycle.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. No pre-soak.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, definitely no pre-soak. Or spot-free rinse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs. “If it makes you feel any better, my first time was next to a bowling alley.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s eyes widen. “It does. Oh my God. Were you in a car?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. And I was still wearing the rental shoes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David gasps. “No!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. It was also ninety degrees out and <em>Ignition</em> was playing, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay that’s just, very sad and very early 2000s. Did you come?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pushes him away, laughing in protest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s eyes darken. “Did she? Were you…” He pauses to poke Patrick in the chest and sing-song, “Popular with the laaadiies?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pops his brows. “Wow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my God, you were. You were probably prom king. How bad was it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick smiles slightly. “Would have been better with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, my first time would have been better with you too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick settles into a more comfortable position under him, cozy and overconfident. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David presses his lips together, delighted any time Patrick shows the slightest sign of easy, teasing banter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, yes,” he murmurs, kissing Patrick softly. “Yes, we would have…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll show you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick chuckles, then adds, “Just to be clear, you’re going to…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestures to indicate what he wants. David rolls his eyes, reaching into the bedside table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, be patient--” He pauses. “Why don’t you have condoms?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I didn’t have a boyfriend until last week?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. Tell me you have them somewhere, because I am not walking to CVS in this weather.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you had some.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David eyes him. “Those are in my other coat--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really need a designated place for condoms, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, I have <em>many</em> places for condoms,” David says, gesturing around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>“</em>The way you have <em>many</em> places for your keys?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I lost my keys once--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You never know where your keys are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is true, but David doesn’t think it’s right for his boyfriend of one week to tease him about it like he’s a long-suffering husband. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know what else I lost?” David murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins in preparation. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David raises one eyebrow. “My interest in you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn, just when this was getting good--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David grabs him closer and laughs, kissing him. “Shut up. God.”  Then he leans back, arching over the side of the bed to fish in his messenger bag, and flicks a condom at Patrick. “There.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick gestures with it between his fingers. “Do you keep these in every bag just in case…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In case I meet the love of my life in some dark alley?” David sits up and leans into another kiss. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if you met him in...I don’t know...math lab--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, don’t assume it’s a him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew you’d leave me for Mariah--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, my love for Mariah is religious, not sexual.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think love can be religious and sexual, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe that’s what idolatry means.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Everyone really wanted to bang that golden calf.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is why you got kicked out of bible camp.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick got kicked out of bible camp for hitting a home run right through the church window, but that’s okay. He leans on his not-broken elbow, reminded of his upcoming game, and sends a smile at David.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a game next week if you want to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David presses his lips together, pained. “So, that seems obligatory as your boyfriend, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on. There’ll be funnel cake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do love funnel cake, but those games can last six hours and--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They can last longer than that. In ‘84 the Brewers went up against the White Sox for 25 innings. Took eight hours and six minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David blinks. “Your family played the White Sox?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David is brilliant. He’s also very dumb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, David. All of us. We’re the only all-family team in the MLB, despite being, you know, Canadian--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I can tell from your tone that you’re mocking me,” says David, “and I don’t accept that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a barbeque for the winning team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you couldn’t sell me on funnel cake, what made you think you could sell me on barbeque?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you eat ribs. I know what they do to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hums, unable to refute this. “I will consider it. But if you lose, and we don’t get to go to that barbeque, I will never do anything with you again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not anything? Even this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, talking when we could be having sex?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick falters. “Am I talking too much?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” David says instantly, kissing him. “No, but…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick smiles into another, deeper kiss. David drags his hand down his body, pausing at his waistband. His breath catches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But maybe…” David whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe I should shut up now?” Patrick mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hums, then kisses him like he means it, a kiss to set them off for the rest of the afternoon. Patrick inhales in surprise, then groans. Fuck David’s good with his tongue. Too good. He could probably do calligraphy with it, or origami. Patrick blinks at this thought. He’s not sure why his brain gets drunk when David’s kissing him, but it does. He’d fail a psych eval right now. Name? Who knows. Year? Not relevant. Current president? Who cares. Maybe David’s a demigod and lobotomizing mortals with a kiss is his power. He smirks at the idea and David notices the twitch of his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was thinking what God you’d be. Maybe Apollo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, that’s flattering.” David kisses him again. “Which one is that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The sun one,” Patrick says. “You should be that for Halloween...with the...chariot…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who would you be?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoever Apollo sleeps with.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That could be thousands of people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs, leaning into another kiss. Then he raises his brows. “I have to look that up or I’ll be distracted--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unbelievable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins, taking his phone off the table. David rolls his eyes, waiting, and Patrick glances at him with an exaggerated gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a whole section on male lovers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, the Greek pantheon is <em>very</em> gay--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh, he was in love with a Spartan prince...oh, but then he killed him by accident with a discus, yikes...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s a discus?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A fancy frisbee. This is sad, Apollo made flowers out of him. Hyacinths. Oh hey, he resurrected him though--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I cannot believe I like you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ditto -- look,” says Patrick, turning his phone to show David an erotic sculpture. “Historians said they were good friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David breathes out. “Okay.” He kisses Patrick. “What’s wrong with you, hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think this would fly in public,” Patrick continues, gesturing at Apollo’s barely-there attire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You clearly haven’t been in New York on Halloween. And why are you planning something that’s 11 months away?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Premature event planning is my gay right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David tries not to smile. “Mhm. Or we could wear that to Pride.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick softens. “I forgot about that. What’s that like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes again, tapping his fingers on the back of Patrick’s phone. “Are you done? And I don’t know. I’ve never gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve never gone to Pride?” Patrick asks, voice hushed and surprised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. It’s too hot. And loud. And glittery. Glitter doesn’t come out, Patrick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw. Maybe Glitter just needs a nudge.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David holds still and Patrick grins, proud of himself. David sighs and wrestles Patrick’s phone away, then throws it and kisses him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go to Pride with you,” he mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Wearing a toga.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs, then looks into David’s eyes, softening. He nods and stretches into another kiss, breathing in, and David smiles slightly on his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was kidding about the toga--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs and touches their noses together, drifting in Patrick’s eyes; his fingers twitch on Patrick’s ribcage, an unconscious impulse, and he smirks as Patrick swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I fuck you now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick lets out a breathy, broken, “<em>Yeah</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David glances into his eyes with a familiar, wicked flicker. Patrick’s remaining rationality disappears like a drink down a drain and he kisses David hard, almost wild, pulling him closer by the chain around his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Finally, Jesus--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, kiss me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, now you’re telling me to--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David shuts up when Patrick tangles his fingers in the chain and cuts off his air supply. He moans, sinking against Patrick, hands wandering lower…Patrick puts his injured arm over his head, safely out of David's greedy reach, and cards one hand through David's hair. David tucks his face against Patrick's neck, kissing him here, and Patrick groans. He's been in David's arms all day but every touch feels new. David hums, pulling his fingers over Patrick's upturned bicep, feathering them over his armpit -- Patrick laughs, then moans again, David's fingers straying over a nipple.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he blinks at the sound of a bottle being uncapped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm...so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David's fingers are already slick with lube. Patrick's breath misses a beat. He's thought about this nonstop since they slept together the first time, despite David's sweet reassurance that they didn't have to rush. He wants this. Wants David. Wants this with David, just David. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me if you want me to stop--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head, impatient, and David smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I know, but I say that since men never do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, and you don't think you're a good person .”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, I seem like a good person because most men attend Bare Minimum University--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs and David joins him, leaning into a kiss. He relaxes, letting one leg fall to the side, and David spools his fingers over his thigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, between us, you’re obviously more of a Greek God…they always have very notable thighs…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick plays along. “Ahuh.” Then he laughs, recalling sophomore lit. “Wait, no, did you read <em>The Odyssey</em>? Because the number of times Homer describes manly thighs--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm, he would have loved yours…” David mumbles, fingers drifting to Patrick’s cock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that’s all I’ve ever wanted--oh, fuhh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David catches a snort, then murmurs, “Stop making me laugh. It’s ruining my image.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s your image?” Patrick asks, surprised he’s talking through this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, aloof and experienced,” says David, twisting his wrist in an expert, devastating way. Patrick’s eyes flutter like they want to roll back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, uh...no one would doubt your experience, David...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s a nice way of calling me slutty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, c’mere, be slutty with me--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs again, kissing him, fingers circling his cock. Patrick falls apart by the second and David teases his expression. Patrick kicks him before moaning into a messy kiss and David slips his fingers lower. He pushes one in, still kissing Patrick, who swears on his mouth. He was right to fantasize about David's fingers the first time he saw them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What a stupid question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“More,” he pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, I'm going to do this right, and right is slow--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Forget right…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David's eyes flicker in loving exasperation and he adds a finger, biting Patrick's bottom lip. Patrick would wince if he wasn't into that twinge, but he is, so he groans instead. He can tell from the rhythm of the kiss that David's amused again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drifts in the kiss and murmurs, as affectionately as possible, “Fuck off, David…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David beams. “Mm who would have guessed you’re so subby--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just keep doing that…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hesitates for half a breath, smirking, then nibbles under Patrick’s ear, down his neck, nipping and sucking, every moan reverberating in his mouth. He swirls his fingers and Patrick jumps, tensing around him, then laughs, emotions spilling in every inappropriate direction from the intensity of the feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy shit, David, <em>fuck</em>…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh, there it is…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve never played with yourself like this, have you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes out. David’s shameless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David smirks. “Mm what a--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick slams their mouths together, cutting him off; David squeaks in surprise, then chuckles, deepening the kiss as he presses his fingers further. Patrick groans into his mouth, suddenly soft under him, fingers grasping the air for a passing prayer. God, he’s never been this gone, and he’s dumb enough to think this must be it, the best feeling on earth...until David proves him wrong with another twitch of his fingers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David… ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s begging and he knows it and he doesn’t care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re very pushy,” David murmurs, fingers trailing out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s eyes wander like he’s drunk. David half-smirks, eyes darting with complete confidence. Damn him. He’s hot and sweet and too smart. He might not think so, but he knows exactly what Patrick wants, because he knows what everyone wants. He knows what to say. When to push or pull. He’s absolutely brilliant and blazing, a supernova, and Patrick would die before he thinks otherwise. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you,” he says on instinct.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hesitates. Patrick wonders if David hoped he would forget last night’s exchange; that he wouldn’t insist on saying those words day by day. Maybe they’re meaningless, unsaid for almost 40 years. Maybe he thinks they’re silly, meant for other people and other times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he says the words back, uncomplicated and uncontrived, and Patrick kisses him with a shaky smile. They bump noses and David shakes his head, kissing Patrick harder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make out until they’re breathless, moving together as snow batters the window. David pushes inside Patrick in the middle of a lingering kiss and Patrick’s breath hitches, clenching David’s arms, nails digging deep; David’s lips drift on his neck, tonguing an old bite mark, and Patrick breathes in, dizzy. David’s fingers were one thing. This is almost uncomfortable, but it’s intoxicating and so intimate he might black out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>David</em>...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David kisses him again and Patrick can tell he’s smiling; an easy, instinctive smile, like he missed him. Then he rolls his hips and Patrick jolts closer, breathing hard, clinging; he expects David to smirk or eye him for his inexperience, but David just kisses him, a soft, lost kiss, as overwhelmed as he is. Their eyes catch for the tiniest moment and they both break into a helpless, huge smile. Then David pulls him closer, almost hugging him, and he stretches his toes into the sheets, totally at ease as David moves in him; he chases every kiss, lingers on David’s lips and fingertips, rocks with him so the bed creaks. It’s effortless. Sure, it’s hot, intense, a drug trip in every touch. But he won’t remember that in ten years. No. He’ll remember David’s expression, how right this feels, how easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck...oh fuck I love you…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David groans and nips his neck. He disintegrates as David glides his tongue over his jaw, nibbles the shell of his ear, breathes out on his skin. David’s name starts to spill from his lips, a sure sign, and David fucks him deeper, slower. He wraps his arms around David, keeping him close, and nudges their noses together as heat builds. Every triple-beat of his heart says the same thing: this is it, this is it. Fuck the doubt that David’s his first boyfriend and that first boyfriends always fade. This one won’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David almost growls. “Oh my God... God ...” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s voice is different like this. Raspy and ragged, stripped down. Patrick pulls his fingers over David’s lips, looking into his eyes, and rocks his hips closer. David swears, dropping his gaze, a bead of sweat catching on his collarbone. Then he grips Patrick’s knee, pushing it aside, and drives into him hard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“D-David, fuck... <em>fuck</em> yes babe--” The headboard slams into the wall; he’d laugh if he wasn’t about to come. “Oh fuck...fu... <em>David</em>… ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David pins his hand over his head, pressing it into the mattress with tangled fingers; they kiss, groaning together, strangled and blurry in the final moment. David reaches between them and Patrick spills over his hand with an incoherent string of yes-yes-yes. David opens his mouth as he comes, stunned, suddenly still, and he stays like this as he breathes out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ohhhmygoh--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck…David…” Patrick catches his breath, sweaty and overheated, then grins. “Fuck babe…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David chuckles. He slides their noses together and they get lost in another, softer kiss. Then David lets his head down on Patrick’s chest, resting here, humming as he traces his arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you done?” The neighbor hammers on the wall behind them. “I’m trying to watch <em>General Hospital</em>! ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s eyes fly open and David bursts out laughing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my God!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, it’s not funny, she’s hard enough to get along with as is--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David tilts his head back and yells, “ Sunrise Bay is better!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick looks at him in outrage and he pops his brows, feigning innocence. Patrick covers his face, laughing, and David grins and shifts off of him. He ties the condom and tosses it aside, then hugs Patrick from the side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to get me kicked out,” says Patrick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, I wasn’t the one yelling--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You broke my headboard!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David leans up. “No I didn’t, and if I did, you couldn’t blame me. Everything in this apartment is falling apart.” Then he smiles and taps his thumb on Patrick’s chest. “So...safe to say you liked that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick turns, bumping his nose on David’s, and nods softly. “Yeah.” Then he laughs and kisses him. “Yes, yeah…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David smiles again, breathing in. “Mm. Your turn later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick chuckles. “Deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stay like this, cocooned in a white blanket, soothing each other with tiny touches. Then the General Hospital theme song plays next door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. These walls are very thin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you that, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I actually--” Patrick’s come-dumb, so he continues. “I found us an apartment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David looks at him, sweaty and flushed, so handsome it’s a crime. Patrick stops breathing, gaze drifting until David nudges him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were saying?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick blinks. “I forgot what I was saying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David presses his lips together, pleased. “You were saying you found us an apartment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick takes a breath. “Yeah. When I heard your mom was staying with Sebastien I found somewhere else she could stay, just in case…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, in case I made it impossible for her to stay with him by attempting murder?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That. But if she doesn’t want the place…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David beams. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, David. I could move there. And you could stay there sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David nods, playing with the trail of hair under his belly button. “Mhm. Or maybe I could move there with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick lets out a huffy laugh, eyeing him. “What am I going to do with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, you’re going to move my couch, and my bed, and anything heavy while I watch you, sipping a mimosa--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David thumbs over his lips. “Okay. I’m kidding. But that’s very sweet you found an apartment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick breathes out. “I just -- I didn’t want you stuck with that, David. Having to visit your mom at his place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David nods, kissing the side of his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s above a shop,” Patrick adds. “An old general store.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s lips flicker in a slight smile and he thumbs over a scar above Patrick’s hip. He inhales, gauging, and murmurs, “Can I tell you something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick glances at him, waiting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to drop out,” says David.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you get your accounting test back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, excuse you. It’s more than the accounting test.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick wrinkles his nose. “70? Lower than 70? 65?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t get it back yet! God!” David puts his fingers over Patrick’s lips so he stops teasing, then fixes him with a stern, serious stare. “I have hated...every minute of this degree...except meeting you. And I only started it because my ex told me I was stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods. Then he smiles and nods harder, eyes sparkling with pride.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hesitates, but he smiles too. “Good decision?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick kisses him. “Good decision.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. That’s a relief, because I already did it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When did you have time to do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh, when I was still a little boozy last night. I emailed my advisor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick raises his brows. “Great.” Then he laughs and kisses David again. “So what now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hums, sliding his hand up Patrick’s chest. “Now...I just need to find...a business partner.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh. Where are you going to find one of those?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David smirks, pulling him into another kiss. “No idea.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Three Hours Later</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"If it doesn’t stop snowing, I’m going to stick my head in the oven!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick leans out of the kitchen to glance outside. It’s nearly dark and the snow is accumulating in drifts, burying the city and anyone unlucky enough to be walking home from work. He’s happy to be snowed in, sipping whiskey and browsing latke recipes while his boyfriend sketches set designs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are we?” David continues, curled up in the window seat, drinking mulled wine. “Antarctica? Is that a person or a penguin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you lived here for fifteen years.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Climate change is real, Patrick!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick goes back into the kitchen. He looks through the window over the sink, watching a bus skid into a taxi. Someone flips someone else off and shouting echoes up the buildings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David groans in the other room. “Ten more inches overnight! God!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick hesitates. He’s out of bacon and eggs, and he doubts David will be happy with Frosted Flakes tomorrow morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna get groceries while I still can,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re insane!” David replies, adding sweetly, “Can you get mine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would I do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because clearly I’m stuck here for several days. Say yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shakes his head, putting a cookbook aside. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll write you a list!” David calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Keep it short!” he calls back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh, I’ll try,” says David, in a tone that suggests he’s about to write a grocery treatise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick leaves the kitchen to find his parka. A few minutes later, he hovers over David to peck him on the cheek, and David passes him a list, written on a spare piece of HP-branded paper (a freebie with Patrick’s latest ink cartridge purchase!) He folds it without looking and David tugs him into a kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t get hit by a snowplow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that happen a lot?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Constantly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles and nods, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. “Be back in a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go to Whole Foods!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses in the doorway. “...why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you won't find everything on my list at a bodega.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs. “David…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Love you too!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shakes his head and continues into the hall. The subway is down from the snow, so he walks a few blocks to the nearest market, smiling to himself. He buys a cup of coffee as soon as he walks inside, then reaches into his pocket for David's list. He lowers his cup in fascination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    
    
    
    
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick squints at an illustration of a moped and the remark next to the HP logo. Ugh. Yep. David flew into Math Lab like a runaway comet and never dimmed in intensity. He’s never met the word moderation. He wouldn't know it if it hit him in the face, letter by letter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shakes his head at the first entry, smiling. He knows he’ll keep this list forever, as proof that his boyfriend’s insane, and because he instantly adores it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Potatoes, not the sad dirty ones</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Russets deserve more respect. Patrick approaches the produce department, studying the potatoes. Leave it to Whole Foods to offer fifteen types and charge $6.27 a pound. That mark-up must be insane, but how many of these are they really selling? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick makes himself stop calculating potato profits in his head. He’s not here for that. Queen gold extra creamy sounds like a varietal David would pick, so he grabs those. He looks at the next entry - matzo meal - and wanders the middle aisles until he finds breadcrumb-y things. He gets the brand David tried to spell right and moves on to the yogurt, x10-20. David does subsist on yogurt. Yogurt, coffee, and hard candy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He piles 15 yogurts into the cart, then wanders to the coffee aisle. He finds the brand with the tiny blue moped and blinks at the price. Now only $14.99/lb! Now? What was it before? $20, plus your soul? He shakes his head and grabs the coffee, studying the back. 100% Arabica beans, roasted to perfection in Sicily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pockets his phone and puts the coffee in the cart, drifting to the meat aisle for bacon, then to the cheese department, which is sprawling and interspersed with wine, crackers, and tapenade. Some kind of soft cheese, but not blue &amp; not “stinky.” He bites his bottom lip, evaluating. Brie? That doesn’t seem adventurous enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He probably has. Patrick smiles to himself, selecting the most affordable round of brie, and hunts for David’s fancy French wine - Clément Sauvignon Blanc, $37.99. He pauses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s apartment is nicer than his and he seems to spend half his budget on imported wine. Are he and Stevie laundering money? Maybe they’re mercenaries. Maybe David is a high-end escort and she deals drugs. Maybe they’re blackmailing Anderson Cooper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All frighteningly plausible. He puts the wine back and picks a discount rosé. David will murder him, but that’s just another day for David. He puts the wine in the cart and adds some flatbread crackers and a jar of olives. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he goes to the florist’s counter and asks for the biggest bouquet of red roses they have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh <em>no</em>… ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David is exploring Patrick’s apartment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This started innocently. He was cold, so he left his perch by the window to turn up the heat; he was about to sit back down when a bookshelf caught his eye. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s never wanted to know anything about who he’s sleeping with. The less he knows the better. He doesn’t want to find out about the secret wife or the drug problem or the illegal handbag scheme. But he wants to know everything about Patrick, which is why he’s currently studying (and silently mocking) a childhood photo. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick, age 7, a boy scout. He has a look of pure hillbilly confidence and he’s holding a bow and arrow. Who gave him that? Does Ontario even have laws? He sips some whiskey, turning the picture over to read the caption. It’s scrawled in pencil.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span><em>This was the day you got your “exploration” badge...I thought it was appropriate now you’re on your way to New York. We love you.</em> -- Mom</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David presses his lips together. He thumbs over her note, smiling, and glances at the snow. Then he puts the photo back where he found it, tucked in a copy of  The Art of the Startup (a book he’d avoid if it was the only thing in solitary), and moves to another volume. This one’s about investing and is full of highlights, plus a bookmark from Elmdale Community Library, which says “Thank you, volunteers!” Of course Patrick volunteered at a library. It was probably a good place to avoid all the girls who were into him. He smirks and sips more whiskey, feathering his fingertips over comatose business titles, until he reaches The Communist Manifesto. He grins and throws this onto Patrick’s desk to tease him, then kneels to look at a framed picture -- Patrick and his family at a ski resort, surrounded by ruby-haired relatives. They’re all bundled up, posing in front of a sign for Mont-Tremblant, and David pops his brows because he went there once with a girlfriend. (They didn’t ski.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes dance to the next picture, which shows a sweeping valley, still touched with snow. Patrick’s favorite place to hike -- that, or Patrick forgot to take the stock image out of the frame. He hums, enjoying himself, unabashed. Patrick shouldn’t have left if he didn’t want all his stuff snooped through. He knew better than to leave David alone in his apartment with an unending supply of amazing whiskey ( sent by his parents from a local distillery -- David might have to move to Elmwherever just for that.) </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drifts to Patrick’s desk. There are two frames above it -- his diploma (B.S. in Business Administration, with a minor in mathematics, with honors...gag) and a graduation picture. He’s sitting between his parents at a nice restaurant, wearing a tux. He looks 22 or 3 and his mortarboard hat is tilted at a tipsy angle. Marcy is gesturing with champagne and Clint is taking a picture with a drugstore camera. Patrick’s in the middle of explaining that someone else is already taking the picture, and Clint’s not hearing him. Six cousins are crowded around them, drinking, smacking Patrick, making rude gestures. David bites his bottom lip; he’s sure more polished pictures came out of that night, but Patrick picked this one to frame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slides his thumb over Patrick’s image, then looks over his desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a mess. David thought he would be neat, but the desk is scattered with scraps of paper: homework, post-its, sheet music, coupons, playbills. It’s a catchall of the last two months, the tasks that fell off the to-do list so David could take their place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David looks closer at a list, concerned that Patrick wrote shampoo/soap like they’re interchangeable. Does he wash his hair with soap? That might explain why it’s so unmoisturized. He wrinkles his nose and grabs a pen to write NO next to this with an arrow. Then he notices a crossword buried underneath and automatically fills in a clue written in French that Patrick put a ?? next to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes with a smile, and pockets his phone. Then it buzzes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bites his lip at this reassuring, unnecessary text, and fights the urge to text something stupid back, like <em>hurry</em> or <em>ily</em> or God forbid, an incriminating emoji. He’d kill himself if he sent a sparkling heart and he’s dangerously close. He throws his phone onto Patrick’s bed, staring at it like it might bite him. Then he finishes his whiskey and continues past Patrick’s desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses in a corner with a second-hand piano, two guitars hung above it, another tilted on the wall in its case. This space is messy too, with tabs and picks and forgotten cups of tea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A metronome is still on, steady in the background as David flips through Patrick’s Cab script. He pauses on page 82, surprised by his own handwriting. He scribbled  I love how you say this line ugh so good!! The page is dog-eared, like Patrick revisited it often. David must have stolen the script, watching backstage, and dotted his opinions throughout rehearsal - he doesn’t remember doing this, too captivated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something falls out of the script. It’s a note, written on the back of a torn-out article.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He breathes in. Then he tucks the note back into place, sniffling and smiling, and sets the script where he found it. He lays his hand on it for a moment before moving on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick inputs Ronnie’s Cafe on his phone as he walks out of Whole Foods. It’s a few blocks out of the way, not worth it in the snow, but worth it for David. The storm turns windy and he hurries inside, relaxing at the scent of bagels and fresh coffee. There’s no line because of the weather. A woman eyes him from behind the counter, striking and no-nonsense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, holishkes. With chicken.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes narrow in suspicion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re for David Rose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs and reaches under the counter for a to-go dish of cabbage somethings. Then she shakes her head. “You must be Patrick. You want extra sauce?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick’s surprised David talked about him. He’s not the type to share anything personal with a woman at a deli. Maybe David, like him, can barely contain himself. Maybe he has to fight embarrassing impulses like shouting <em>I love him!</em> off the nearest skyscraper.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, thanks,” he says. He hesitates, but he can’t help himself. “He mentioned me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes and scoops some sauce into two to-gos. “Mentioned you? Can’t give that kid a bagel without hearing about Mr. Right. Surprised this is the first time I’m meeting you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve only been together a week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pauses as she reaches for a third container. Then she hoots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s funny?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s mentioned you every day since September.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick holds still. “He what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He tipped me and said he just met his husband. Then he kept referring to you that way.” She eyes him. “Just FYI.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods, breathing out. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, hm. Thanks for the sauce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wrinkles her nose. “It ain’t free. $6.50 each.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, yes…” He nods harder, taking his wallet out. He adds a twenty to the stack already on the counter. “Was he joking, or…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She waves him off. “I don’t know what goes on in his head and I don’t want to.” Then she says, “No. He wasn’t. Sad sack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the bag, balancing it with the bouquet and groceries. He opens his mouth, about to ask something else, but she gives him a look equivalent to a portcullis coming down. He thanks her, exiting the cafe, and starts home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>~</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His apartment feels new as he turns the keys. David greets him by the door and kisses him, messy on the threshold, touch spilling over like holiday champagne. He gasps about the flowers, tugging on Patrick’s wrist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you know?” he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Know what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call me old-fashioned, but those are my favorite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not old-fashioned.” He kisses him with a smile. “And good. Thought so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” David hooks a finger in his jacket to pull him inside. “So, the power’s out, and your apartment is perfectly terrifying without it being dark, and I’m already blind...I actually had just taken my contacts out when the power died and for a moment I thought I lost my sight forever, which would be a shame because you’re very pretty…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He trails off into a tipsy kiss. Patrick nods, taking this all in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how can you tell who you’re kissing right now?” he mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David beams. “I can echolocate. I know whoever I’m kissing is shorter than me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick sighs. “Okay.” He kisses David again. “Move, I’m cold…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They go inside and he hangs his jacket. David smiles, feeling his way into the kitchen to put the roses in an empty jam jar, and Patrick pulls the bags by the counter. The apartment is toasty and candles are scattered throughout, lending dim light; a Joni Mitchell album is on the record player. David nods at this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Normally, I would think a record player is a red flag, but you're a musician so…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is it a red flag?” Patrick asks, unpacking the potatoes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh, the only people I've ever dated who have record players are either over 60, or 20 with a handlebar mustache…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You dated someone over 60?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David wrinkles his nose. "He had a mansion on Kauaʻi, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you have sugar daddies if you were rich?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David tips his head back, reminiscing. “I liked the challenge.” He raises his brows, recalling something. “He named his boat after me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shakes his head, putting away the coffee. “The David?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No no, he used my nickname. Peaches.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to know the origin of that, do I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” David says seriously, putting the matzo meal away. “No you don’t…” He trails off and gestures with a bottle of discount rosé. “What's this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, your wine was too expensive, so I got that instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. I gave you a list for a reason.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That wasn’t a list, David. That was a novel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apparently I should have included a forward that said no substitutions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apparently I should rob a bank.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes and uncorks the bottle.  “We’ll suffer through it…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick leans over to inspect it. “It has 90 points from Wine Spectator.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, Wine Spectator can suck my dick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grabs glasses. “Good for Wine Spectator.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I asked for that wine because we’re celebrating,” David adds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Celebrating what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David’s lips do a little dance and he pokes Patrick in the chest. “Losing your virginity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods. “15 years late?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She doesn’t count. Also because I survived your apartment while you were gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, c’mon--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patrick, there's a live wire hanging from the ceiling in your bedroom. The sink in the bathroom sounds like a dying animal. This whole building shakes when the wind blows. And the wall over there is oozing some…” He gestures. “Some mystery substance!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick glances at the rusty stain behind the TV. “Yeah I...don't know what that is…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do! Clearly the tenants before you murdered someone and stuffed them in the wall!” David pours some wine. “And your book collection is very boring. Except the Communist Manifesto, which I’m assuming was for--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For a class.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mhm.” David offers him a glass of wine. “But your record collection is surprisingly sharp.” He smiles, flirty and touchy, and pulls Patrick closer. “Blondie, Donna Summer? I was impressed. It almost made me forget about you not knowing Erasure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick puts his arms around David’s neck and David smiles at the easy gesture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, and you were very cute as a boy scout--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David? Snooping around your boyfriend’s apartment is one thing. Conducting a CIA-level raid is another.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, it would be an FBI raid but you’re forgiven since you’re Canadian and unlike me, you haven’t dated any international criminals. And I didn’t raid anything. It fell out of a book! I also saw you saved my…” He cinches his arms around Patrick’s waist. “My number.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick glances down, laughing. Then he leans into David, nodding against his chest, and David smiles and sets his chin on Patrick’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just thought you had another math question,” Patrick jokes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs. “No you didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grins. “No, I didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both chuckle. David kisses his temple and takes a breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still want to make me dinner? If you don’t, I will starve, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick lifts his face and kisses him. “Yeah. If you help me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David makes a face, emotions competing. “Oh! Mm. That. That may not be the best idea.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it’s a great idea,” says Patrick, pulling him toward the stove.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David squeezes his wrists, laughing. “No, I’ll start something on fire--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve already got about fifty candles lit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David flicks the nearest tea candle. “I thought it was romantic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is but it’s...illegal--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” says David, feigning concern. He kisses Patrick and grabs him closer. “So was this…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still is in some states. Invalidated in ‘03 though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs and pushes him against the counter. “God you’re boring. Tell me more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, in Texas, two guys were having sex--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God, not in Texas. Continue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the police walked in on them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David unzips Patrick’s vest. “Oh, been there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And they were charged with a misdemeanor but they appealed and it went all the way to the Supreme Court. And the court overturned it. It set the stage for Obergefell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The way you said that makes me think I should know about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was the marriage equality case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David hits him in the chest. “Oh! I mean, <em>I</em> don’t care, but--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. You only called me your husband for three months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David holds still, pressing his lips together. Then he tugs on Patrick’s vest and nods. “Okay. I have to kill her now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it’s cute--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not cute. It slipped out the day after I met you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins and David huffs at how smug he looks. He throws his vest aside and pours more wine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never should have sent you there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh,” says Patrick, pulling David closer by his sweater. “See, I think you sent me there on purpose, and told me to use your name, hoping she might tell me that…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I absolutely did do that, because it’s hard for me to say how much I love you, and I hate that you figured that out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know you did just tell me how much you love me by saying it’s hard for you to say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop logicking me,” David murmurs, kissing him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not a word--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David cuts him off with another, playful kiss. “Did you at least get holishkes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, enough to feed an army.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmkay. So maybe we eat those instead of making latkes, which sound very complicated--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re not. You’re helping me.” He kneels in front of the fridge. “And I’m having a beer because that wine is…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s bad? God, I wonder why. Maybe because you picked it from the discount section. Maybe because Wine Spectator is staffed by a bunch of schmucks. Maybe because it’s a fake rosé, and maybe because <em>this</em>…” He taps the brand name. “Is a subsidiary of Vela.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okie dokie,” says Patrick, searching the fridge. He finds a pale ale and stands up. “What’s a fake rosé?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, a fake rosé happens when they mix red and white together.” He pauses, considering. “If I believed in God, I’d say that’s what he did with me. He had a bunch of leftover identities and said…” He mimics pouring two bottles together. “This’ll do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then he added anxiety.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. With me, he had a straight guy, but a Freaky Friday situation happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“<em>Yes</em>. There’s some queen in Palm Beach who’s actually straight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should find him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should. You should explain he was meant to be in business school, wearing shirts that can only be described as almost blue. Blue that had a bad day. Grey pretending to be blue."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Says the guy who’s never worn a color.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David scoffs and gestures at his sweater, which is light blue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t count. It’s mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course it is! It’s meh blue!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize this was such a hang-up for you. And that looks good on you. With your...Sicilian skin tone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I actually am Sicilian!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick tries not to laugh, grabbing a potato peeler. “Okay. How did that happen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David leans on the counter, sipping the fake rosé. He leans his head back. “So. In 1943, my great grandfather--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here we go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not always lying, Patrick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick smiles. “Sorry. Go on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes and smiles too, watching him peel a potato. “My great grandfather was a soldier. And he was in Italy doing...something, I don’t know, I hate war.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hot take.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David throws the wine cork at his head. It hits him square in the temple and he turns with an open mouth, faking outrage. David grins and lets out a bubbly, rough chuckle. Then he sips his wine and continues. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And my great grandmother was Italian, married to an officer, and he was terrible, obvi. So she started working for the other side.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick opens his mouth in admiration.“Go grandma.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David beams and nods. “Mhm. And she fell in love with my great grandfather, and she got pregnant, which was…” He gestures. “A big oopsie, since she wasn’t sleeping with her husband, because he was sleeping with his secretary. So she was planning on killing him. But then Italy surrendered and he put his gun in his mouth. Problem solved. And she and my great grandfather went to America. So yes. ⅛ Sicilian, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick hums, happy they’re sharing this. David lifts himself onto the counter and smirks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you? Does your family have any...intrigue and espionage?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs, shifting closer. “No. We don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. Maybe you can begin that tradition.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick kisses him. “Off to a good start.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David grins and laughs. “Mhm. I <em>am</em> a scandal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods, smiling, and takes a cookbook from the cupboard. David gets to his feet and joins him, hugging him. He chuckles, leaning into the touch, and lifts his face so David can kiss him. They grin on each other’s mouths and David’s fingers catch on his shirt, playful but patient. Then Patrick kisses him again, pouring his happiness out like sunshine, and they laugh together, wrestling, almost dancing. They stare into each other’s eyes, so in love that that time stops; the snow halts midair, the record suspends a C chord, and the candles hold steady and still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I helping?” David murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Read me the recipe."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David nods, glancing down to smile, then pecks a tiny kiss on Patrick’s lips. He slides the cookbook closer, fingers walking over the page. Then the album ends, the needle pah-pahing on the record, and he smirks. He flicks Patrick in the chest, then turns to change the album, disappearing in the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, the funky <em>dunk da dah</em> of Hall and Oats fills the kitchen. David shimmies into the kitchen and Patrick smiles so hard his face hurts, shaking his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> David pulls him in, hands all over him. “What, you don’t like it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I love...I love it, I love you…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David kisses him. “Good.” Then he laughs and sings along, “You-ooh, you, oo-oohh ooh…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins. “You make my dreams come true!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh-ooh, ooh!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well well well you…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You make-a my dreams come true!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They laugh into a kiss. Then the bridge hits and Patrick thrusts his arms over his head, bopping his head. David grins, grabbing him close, spinning him...and he throws his head back, laughing loud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If his life’s a marathon, this is the finish line. The delirious collapse after mile 26. The perfect victory, silent cheers, pounding pulse, hands above his head as I did it sinks in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never eaten that much in my life,” David mumbles, splashing his face with cold water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs in agreement. They’re in the bathroom together, getting ready for bed after eating their weight in holishkes, latkes, chocolate mints, and Cheetos. He digs to the back of his medicine cabinet for an extra toothbrush, then pops up to look at David.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Told you I had one,” he says proudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David inspects it. “Where’s the on button?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not all toothbrushes are electric, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes. “Irish Spring and now this…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David had a problem with his choice of soap. And shampoo. And shower decor. Patrick pats his shoulder and reaches for his own toothbrush. Then he glances at David in the mirror and catches a smile. He hasn’t brushed his teeth beside someone in years, and never beside a man he openly loves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” David murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs. “This is nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David eyes him, unconvinced, but there’s a smile hidden on his lips. He unzips a monogrammed toiletry bag and pulls out some aloe. It seems he has a 12-step skincare routine, which Patrick knows he shouldn’t be surprised by, but still. The time. He’s been in here half an hour...more time than it took for Patrick to shower, start a load of laundry, and do the dishes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you moisturizing now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David wrinkles his nose. “My neck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have...neck-specific moisturizer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David looks at him, unamused. “Do you understand how poorly necks age?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never thought about neck aging.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David rolls his eyes again and leans his head back so he can apply the moisturizer.“There’s no plastic surgery for necks. I can’t fix this the way I fixed my nose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still can’t believe your parents let you do that when you were 14.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"They basically insisted,” says David, unscrewing a tiny jar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick leans over. “And what’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a lip scrub, Patrick! Do you need to be in here?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins, leaning on him while he brushes his teeth. David sighs and hip-checks him away. He chuckles and drifts out of the bathroom to turn down his bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Should I scrub <em>my</em> lips?” he calls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you should shut them!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, I’m not teasing you.” He throws an extra pillow on the bed. “I’m only teasing you a little.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mhm. I’ve broken up with someone over skincare, so be careful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You broke up with someone over skincare?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was a supermodel and she kept stealing my eyebrow gel!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick fluffs the pillows. “You dated a supermodel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Alexis was a model, so they were everywhere. I would just find them in our house. I think some of them lived there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I don’t think it’s a house if it’s so big you can lose...dozens of models in it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I couldn’t get rid of them,” David continues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick shakes his head. “That must have been tough, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was!” he shouts. “<em>You</em> try telling Gisele Bündchen to go home!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“David, there’s no way you didn’t love bossing supermodels around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine. I ate it up. But still.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick adds another blanket to his bed, smiling to himself. Then he returns to the bathroom and finds that David has applied two under-eye masks and lit a candle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you...did you bring that from home?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David pops his brows. “Um, I didn’t think you would have a lavender-patchouli candle and it’s part of my routine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods like this is a normal thing to say. David’s lips twitch and they meet eyes in the mirror. Patrick laughs on instinct and David bites his bottom lip to keep his amusement in check.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Patchouli?” Patrick asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an herb!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles. Then he leans into David, kissing his shoulder, and David spares an arm to hold him. They drift together, sleepy, and David kisses him above his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I high-maintenance?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, a hundred percent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. But you like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I like you, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David nods, breathing in. Then something gives way and he breathes out, sniffling He shakes his head, expression traveling the spectrum, and lands on a smile. Patrick smiles too, closing his eyes, and David thumbs his elbow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this feeling any better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods. David nods too, thumbing it again, and Patrick tangles their fingers together to pull David out of the bathroom. David tumbles onto his bed, his profile caught by city light, and Patrick settles next to him. David tilts his head back for a kiss. Then he grins, naughty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought you were going to do me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick pats his hip. “Too tired.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to sleep next to someone I didn’t just have sex with?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick cracks up. “Is that a first?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ooh, yes. Unless you count Stevie. I get in bed with her when I have nightmares.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bet she loves that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lives for it.” David’s eyes catch a book of crosswords. “Do you do those every night like a sad widow?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. You want to do one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David cuddles into him, head on his chest, and nods. Patrick shakes his head, fighting a smile, and grabs the book.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay...calligrapher’s supplies, four letters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inks!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances at David and pencils this in. “Uh, small serving of greens...nine letters.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Side salad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Detective’s coat--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trench!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Altitude for Rockies...mile. Okay. French jewelry--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bijoux,” says David, stretching into a kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick laughs, pushing him away. “Bankrupted company led by Kenneth...yeah, Enron. Ah, fuckin’ Enron--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David pokes him. “Do not start.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick eyes him. “Asymmetrical dress--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“High-low. Who wrote this? This is for toddlers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re Mondays.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David yawns. “It’s Wednesday, Patrick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods, pulling the covers over David.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Team with rainbow uniform, 1975...Astros…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Baseball has rainbow uniforms? Forget the toga…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick grins, shifting lower in bed, and nudges his head against David’s. “I like the toga.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. What about a rainbow toga?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s gay enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David laughs. “Okay. A rainbow toga, wrapped in Christmas lights, with a flashing neon sign that says <em>BOYS</em> --”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if that’ll get my message across, David.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” David opens his eyes, sleepy and smiling. “Maybe if you just hold my hand. And walk with me behind the Cabaret float we’re going to make.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patrick nods. “I’d like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David smiles wider. “I’d like that too.</span>
</p>
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